


Sticks and Stones

by Justkeeptrekkin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slow Burn, thank you 2005 David Tennant for being Casanova and giving me this idea, the weirdest cross over, what a weird selection of characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-06-24 21:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19732555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justkeeptrekkin/pseuds/Justkeeptrekkin
Summary: When Crowley slopes off to Venice, taking on the name of Casanova and causing plenty of mischief, he hopes that it'll help him get over his unrequited love for his best friend. When Aziraphale discovers that the infamous Casanova is, in fact, Crowley, he only hopes that he won't caught up in anything too silly and get hurt.Love isn't always simple. For Crowley and Aziraphale, things are no different.





	1. ACT I: Scene I

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most ridiculous fic, I'm. I don't know what to say. 
> 
> I've rated this as teen at the moment, because there are references to sexual situations but like, that's it. Nothing explicit at all or mature i don't think. Tell me if you think i should move the rating up?
> 
> For those who were unaware, David Tennant played Casanova in the 2005 TV show. He was.... Excellent.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy!

**Scene I: Enter Narrator, God**

_[Deus Ex Machina. A smile on her face.]_

It was never my intention, of course, to make it so difficult for them. 

Often, when two people fall in love, there’s some preamble. Often, there’s pain, misunderstanding. Anxiety that it’s unrequited, confusion over whether the feelings are real or just surface level attraction. Sometimes it’s complicated. Sometimes it’s messy. 

Love, I must admit, is a tricky business, and I didn’t really bother making it un-tricky. Scientists say, nowadays, that love is simply a series of neurons firing away in the human brain, a cloud of chemicals that overwhelms, driven by whatever theory that Darwin or someone or other came up with. And largely, those scientists are right. The universe is one great mind. It’s _my_ mind. And my mind is everything’s mind. The stars are my brain cells, the space between them my neurons, the light that spreads through the dark matter my love for all things. Love _is_ an exact science. But that doesn’t make it easy.

For this angel and demon, love does not treat them any differently. Love is my pesky cat that toyed with them, they the ball of string. It was, truly, never my intention to make it quite so uniquely hard for them. That is just the way it had to be. That’s just the way that the ball of string unravelled. And I have watched it unravel for millennia. 

Now, you all know the story of Armageddon. You all witnessed the angelic legions taking arms in the vaults of Heaven, the rallying armies of Hell gnashing their teeth and snatching up their pitchforks, the sounds of flies and snakes and wolves and vultures screeching through the charged air. The skies brightening with anticipation of war, the ground shaking with the arrival of Lucifer himself. And the subsequent deflating balloon that was the cancellation of the Apocalypse. 

Two beings, two sides of the war, one table at the Ritz. No angelic verse could compare to the song in both their hearts that day. 

Yes, you may know that story, but do you know what came first? Do you know the story that planted the seed of idiocy between them? The story that nurtured their obliviousness and watered their wilful moronacy? (I am God. I can make words up if I want.)

Before we begin, let me take you back to the moment that started the celestial snowball rolling down the heavenly mountain. Let me take you back to 1600, when our two lovers began, at last, to take their story into their own hands. Not _entirely_ into their own hands, though. 

It wouldn’t be so ineffable, then, would it?

**Enter Crowley**

The pub is crowded and far too warm. Humans flock around alcohol like flies to manure, and Crowley, despite being very much _not_ human, is not exempt from this phenomenon. 

As he sits on a rickety bar stool and drinks his unpleasantly warm ale, he surveys the two men singing a tuneless song, witnesses the bar lady shouting at the regulars with affectionate gusto, sees the questionable exchange of goods in the dark corner of a booth. It’s loud and claustrophobic. Smelly and crowded. The George pub in Southwark at 9pm on a Friday night is the epicentre of human behaviour, and Crowley finds that it’s something quite beautiful, here, from the sidelines. Like watching pigeons fight over scraps of bread. Beautiful- only, in a grotesque way. 

That’s why it’s always so obvious when Aziraphale walks into the room. 

The contrast is stark- right down to the optimistic expression on his face, always just a _little_ pinched. A small wince as he acclimatises to the sheer humanity of the room. Today, he’s wearing a small but comical ruff that someone other than Crowley must have encouraged him to wear. The cape of a Lord, and trousers that are just about as stupidly puffy as Crowley’s. There’s been a tacit but understood contest between the two of them regarding who can find the puffiest trousers. Today, Aziraphale has won. 

And with his perfectly styled hair, pulled together brows, standing straight with hands clasped behind him, he couldn’t look more out of place if he tried. But then his eyes fall on Crowley and a bright, innocent smile reaches his lips- and thus Crowley is proven wrong. Now, he looks even more out of place. 

“‘Nother pint, when you’re ready,” Crowley calls out and knocks against the counter. The bar lady starts pouring one without further acknowledgement.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale greets him, settling on the seat next to him. He sounds so earnest, and all he’s said is his name. “You didn’t come to see the play!”

“I saw Hamlet already. Remember? That’s the reason it became so popular in the first place. Don’t need to put myself through that again.”

“Bill really was put out that you weren’t there.”

“He’ll survive.”

The pint is shoved roughly in their direction, and Aziraphale takes it uncertainly. 

Crowley clinks their tankards. “Cheers.”

“Oh yes- cheers!”

They take a long drink. They put down their drinks in sync. 

“Quite amazing, how well Bill’s doing with all these plays. Especially now dear old Kit’s gone.”

“ _Ahh_ , Kit should’ve known what was coming, silly bastard.”

Aziraphale frowns, licking the beer foam from his lips. “I thought the two of you were friends? What with all the Hell imagery in- um- that play of his, I don’t remember the name.”

“Doctor Faustus. Way better than Hamlet- don’t tell Bill- no, it’s just, he was a lost cause. I didn’t even do anything to tempt him towards evil, that was his own daft self.”

“Oh. What a shame.”

“Possible one of the others got to him first.”

They sit in contemplative silence and remember Kit Marlowe, idiot extraordinaire. Fun to have around on a night out, though. Apart from that very last night out, of course. 

“It really was better than the last performance, this one,” Aziraphale mutters into the glass, peering over at Crowley. 

Someone’s card game either goes incredibly well or disastrously badly, because half the room erupts into roars and someone flips over the table, cards scattered everywhere. 

“ _Listen_ ,” Crowley complains, sloshing his drink dangerously, “I just couldn’t be arsed sitting through another play, angel. They don’t give you enough breaks. The interval’s too short and there’s always someone eating grapes, just, disgustingly loudly right next to your face.”

“I suppose I can’t argue there,” he concedes, “But you don’t have to stand in the stalls. You could have sat with me, with the nobility.”

Crowley conveys his distaste with a sneer, and Aziraphale tuts. 

“You’re too _stubborn_ , Crowley.”

That makes him lean back in his chair, staring at his friend with raised eyebrows. “Pot. Kettle. _Black._.”

“Shush. Stop derailing. You really should apologise to Bill. He’s absolutely convinced that you’re his good luck charm and he wanted you there.”

“Well, he’s not entirely wrong is he? And besides, I’ve done my good deed, far _gooderer_ than any I ought to be doing so, nah, not going to show my face to opening night.”

Aziraphale shrugs lightly. The way he shrugs is never lazy or thoughtless as shrugs are meant to be. It’s a prim little lift of the shoulders that looks more like he’s shifting his wings into place, or perhaps rolling his muscles before launching himself into some didactical speech. 

“Time was, you enjoyed going to those things,” Aziraphale muses, peering into his tankard. “You used to like watching all the actors flail on stage and the audience throwing tomatoes.”

“That I did,” Crowley agrees with a nod. 

“Then, what changed?”

And he looks up at Aziraphale, sees his eyes fixed on Crowley’s with interest. So innocent and expectant of an ordinary answer. His cherub hair curving around his face like paintings of clouds. His cheeks a little red in the heat of the pub. Countless times, Crowley has found himself sitting opposite Aziraphale, and almost every time, he’s reminded of that very first moment in Eden. A scandalised look on his face, covering his amusement. Unreserved kindness. A wing over his head in the rain. 

There is no way that he can answer Aziraphale’s question honestly. There is no way that he can tell him that, actually, what changed is that now he associates the theatre with _him_ , and now whatever mischievous, demonic pleasure he derived from Bill’s plays is gone- because now it’s all _angelic_ and _wonderful_ and _perfect_ and _miraculous_. Now, stepping foot into the Globe makes him think of Aziraphale. 

It’s bloody horrible. 

It’s then, as he flounders, waving his half empty tankard about as he searches for words, Aziraphale watching with rising concern, that he realises how far gone he is. The date is 1600, and the demon Crowley suddenly realises how irreversibly in love he is. He can’t turn back six thousand years and undo this, even if he wanted to. It’s gotten too messy. His heartstrings are all tangled and there’s no way of unpicking them, now. 

“Well,” he croaks. He gives up and takes a gulp of ale, Aziraphale frowning at him like Crowley is having an embarrassing, senile moment. “Well, I s’pose it’s just. Like I said. It’s like I said, angel, just got bored of people eating food loudly when I’m trying to watch a play. And besides, Bill really peaked with _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_.”

Aziraphale watches him from the corner of his eye, brow furrowed in suspicion. And then he pouts. “That’s not at all a good enough reason. Philistine.”

Crowley gives a silent sigh of relief to himself. He can thank the stars above, including the ones that he made, that Aziraphale is gullible. 

And just when he thinks that he can recover from this moment- just when he thinks that the world can realign itself and he can simply enjoy a pint with this friend like he’d intended to, rather than deal with some tidal wave of affection- Aziraphale smiles. Bright and unaffected and undiluted in its purity. 

It hurts and heals him in places that he didn’t know demons could have. 

Now, Crowley sighs audibly, and rests his face in his hands. Either he has a nasty case of heart burn, or this whole loving-an-angel thing just got a bit too much. 

“Next time Bill puts on one of his plays,” Aziraphale powers on, oblivious, “I think he mentioned another comedy, soon, come to think of it- do you think you can cast a little miracle on that one, too? Or perhaps we can take it in turns! You don’t have to watch them, of course, but I do love his work.”

In the dark behind his hands, behind closed eyes, he marvels at his foolishness. Has there ever been another demon like him? Has there ever been another silly sod to have fallen in love with an angel- and what’s worse, feel a love that's _unrequited_? Demons aren’t meant to pine, and they certainly aren’t meant to shove their desires under the proverbial carpet. But then, here he is, yearning. He’s a clown. A clown in the disguise of a demon. He may as well exchange the snake eyes and tattoo for a bright red bloody-well nose. 

Without explanation, he dismounts the stool, and downs his pint. Aziraphale looks at him in surprise, confusion. 

It’s about time to move onto the next adventure. Yes, what he needs is a little holiday- somewhere _nicer_ than here, to reconnect with himself. Find some zen. Just to clear the old noggin. Nothing better than some time alone to blow out the cobwebs. Find somewhere warm and sunny and just rest, with a good drink in hand. Yes, it’s about time. 

And it’s nothing unusual for them, to part ways for a while, so this shouldn’t feel especially drastic. But it does. Because, above all, holiday or not, Crowley feels the need to take a pair of scissors and _cut_ whilst he can.

Just for now.

Crowley slams down the empty tankard and briefly rests a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder as he walks past. 

“Not this time, angel. Not this time.”

Without another word, without a second glance, he saunters out, just as a pint glass smashes on the wall beside his head. He leaves the pub with all the swagger and confidence that he doesn’t have. 

Crowley steps into the rain, and he walks along the riverside, in no particular direction. Somewhere that isn’t London. He could really do with a nap. Just a little rest. 

Being in love is so exhausting. 

“Enough,” he mutters to himself. “Enough.”

***

Crowley- for what is not the first time- takes an accidental, century-long nap. Not before assuming his snake form and curling up somewhere warm and dark, some Mediterranean island that he couldn’t for the life of him remember the name of. And so he hibernates, heals what he can of his little snake heart, and wakes up in another era. He’s quite unaware of how much time has past until he slithers out of his hole and sees that thankfully, the ruff is no longer a fashionable item of clothing. 

After some decades of touring, he winds up in Venice. 

If demons are the bits of foliage and wreckage that get sucked towards the eye of the storm, Venice is the eye. The year is 1741, and Crowley fits right in with the debauched dandies and Venetian socialites, drinking throughout the day and doing God knows what at night. His colleagues in Hell are most impressed to see him stirring it all up further. He becomes a Venetian- he curls his hair and unbuttons his shirts as low as possible. He pulls up his socks and powders his face. He dabbles with a moustache for some time, and finds it too reminiscent of a goat, and so abandons it. 

He thinks of Aziraphale every day. 

The year is 1743, and Crowley is paying a visit to his good friend, Giacomo Casanova. A bit of a troublemaker, though a good hearted one, he’s twenty-one years old and far too intelligent for his own good. A man that young shouldn’t have the time to be a heartbreaker _and_ a lawyer _and_ a doctor _and_ a soldier. Crowley wonders if the man has had some sort of Tree of Knowledge situation happen to him. He’s both too clever and horny not to have eaten some sort of knowledge apple. 

Either way, Casanova is good fun to be around, and always starts the silly kinds of bad behaviour that Crowley’s spent his lifetime promoting. Nothing more damaging than letting some aristocrats’ gondolas float adrift in the canals. Knocking on doors and running away. Perhaps seducing some men and women who didn’t require all that much seducing. 

This particular visit, however, is not a happy one. 

Giacomo Casanova is dying. 

Crowley walks the streets of Padua. It’s March, and the weather is warm but not yet stagnant and cloying, as it tends to get at the height of summer. The cobbles knock loudly beneath his buckled shoes and he looks down the quiet streets, everyone inside resting for the afternoon. Laundry hangs between the buildings above, casting shadows on the pavement. Sun-bleached cream and terracotta facades trapping the heat. He makes his way up the small incline to where Casanova is staying- his grandmother Marzia’s house. Once an actress in a touring theatre troupe, she is too old to continue. Now, she answers the door to Crowley, who steps into the cool building silently and follows her up the stairs to Casanova's room. 

The shutters are closed and a blade of white light peeks through. The bedsheets are crumpled at Casanova’s feet. There’s a sheen of sweat on the young man’s face, and the room smells like various ointments, mixed with death. His top lip is dyed red, from multiple nosebleeds. 

“You look like shit,” Crowley says gently. 

Casanova snorts in amusement, and it turns into a coughing fit. His grandmother steps in to assist, but he holds a hand out for her to stop as he coughs into a handkerchief. She tuts at him, doing what old women do best and covering her concern with annoyance. She bustles out of the room and closes the door. 

Crowley stands at the end of the bed. 

“Thank you for coming to see a sick man. It isn’t particularly pleasant.”

Crowley shrugs. “I’ve seen worse.”

He smirks, knowing better than to let himself laugh again. Skin white, and pale eyes watering. “I really thought- that this sickness would stop. It felt like I’d gotten past it as a child, and then this blasted thing in Corfu…”

“Oh, come off it. You barely lifted a finger in Corfu. Just because you joined the regiment doesn’t mean you actually fought.”

“I showed the other men a good time.”

“I’m sure you did, and I bet it was hard work too.”

“It truly was.”

They look at each other, the air heavy and the room dark, and Crowley sighs. 

“So, what’s your medical opinion, then. Come on. What’s the verdict.”

“Ah,” Casanova sighs, rolling his head so his cheek rests against the pillow. “I’d give myself a few more days. I don’t feel brilliant, anyway.”

Neither one of them are the type to enjoy _thank-you_ s, or apologies, or anything of the sort. In Casanova’s case, he has spent much of his life unloved and abandoned, and he has a violent distrust of anything anyone says as a result. In fact, he distrusts all human beings as a whole. 

Maybe that’s why he likes Crowley so much. 

“I do have a favour to ask of you, my strange, supernatural friend.”

Crowley draws in a long breath and sits down. “Here we go. Thought there was something you were keeping to yourself.”

Casanova attempts a shrug, or at least, it looks like it. He seems to give up after the first centimetre. Pale green-grey eyes meet Crowleys. Blood tinted lips move minutely as he talks. 

“I want you to be me.”

The room goes very quiet. The world outside is even quieter, the whole of Padua sleeping through the heat. Crowley shifts position on the bed, crossing his legs- ankle on knee. 

“Say that again?”

“I want you to be me,” he repeats slowly, a small smile growing. “Crowley, I won’t be around much longer, but I don’t think Venice deserves to lose its Casanova yet.”

There’s a brief moment of disbelief, and then Crowley wonders how on earth he could be surprised. He laughs unhappily, rubbing his face. “You... you really couldn’t make this shit up.”

“Live my life for me, with my name,” Casanova continues. “There isn’t a man I trust more to spread just the right amount of tomfoolery. And occasional trouble.”

“And sluttiness,” Crowley says from behind his hands. 

“Of course. But aside from all that, I think the world needs more people like you and me.”

“You’re _worse_ than me.”

“Indisputably.” Casanova says this confidently, and Crowley removes his hands, a little surprised. “Come, now. You’re possibly the kindest man I know, even if you hate to admit it. You are no cad, like the rest of us. That’s why I want you to continue the Casanova name. For me. Please.”

“You want to live vicariously through me.”

“I want to know that when I die,” Casanova says more seriously, “the world knows that life isn’t just about law and order. I don’t-”

It’s easy to forget that he is just twenty one. Crowley watches Casanova’s face crumple, hears his words catch in his throat. 

“I don’t want to be forgotten,” the boy whispers. 

And that’s all it takes, really. Crowley lays a hand on his friend’s shin, passes him a towel when his nose begins to bleed again. He stays for as long as Casanova is able to stay awake, and he makes his promise. When he falls asleep, breaths rattling painfully, Crowley takes his leave.

He steps into the sunlit streets of Padua with a new name. 

***

It is 1745 and Crowley finds himself fully thrown into the life of Casanova. And he is a legend.

All it takes is a consistent, low level miracle to convince people he’s him. He has met the Pope and scandalised him, bowing to the floor fake-obsequiously with a devilish grin. He has infiltrated the Church under the guise of a scribe and had a good go at unveiling just how corrupt it is; he’s never liked its holier than thou behaviour when, in reality, the majority of the Vatican are worse than even some of the demons he’s worked with. He has dabbled in some light gambling and lost all Casanova’s money- which had made him laugh, when Crowley had updated him during a rare visit to check on his deteriorating condition. He’s pulled pranks and created discourse (of the entertaining variety) and slept with probably a quarter of Venice by this point, men and women. All in all, he has elevated the name of Giacomo Casanova to greater heights. 

He _still_ thinks about Aziraphale everyday. 

His colleagues are very impressed. _Well done for causing such a stir, Crowley. Genuinely thought Venice couldn’t get any worse,_ says Ligur one day, on poking a suspicious nose in on him. They still aren’t particularly trusting of him, it seems. Crowley can’t blame them. 

Because as much as this does make him look good downstairs, it also provides an ulterior motive- it gives him a focus. Venice is his project, and for once, this project involves the kind of demonic work that’s actually enjoyable and doesn’t involve violence. He can do that sort of thing. He doesn’t mind being encouraged in this direction.

But beyond that, he’d sort of hoped it would help him take his mind off Aziraphale- rebound, in a way. 

It doesn’t. 

He sees the coffee shops and booksellers that flourish across the Venetian lagoon and thinks of him. Drinks the wine and eats the food with his debauched companions and wonders which cake would be Aziraphale’s favourite. He thinks of him when he really wishes he wouldn’t. When he really knows he _shouldn’t_.

It’s not acceptable to sleep with someone and think of your best friend. Crowley’s very aware of that. 

It is Carnevale, the run up to Lent when the whole of Venice launches itself into an alcoholic stupor and runs amuck in flamboyant masks, in luxurious silk attire. Crowley is walking through Piazza San Marco, purple evening sky and heat only just beginning to dwindle. He presses through the crowd and responds to people’s attention with a grin and playful banter. He is making his way to his patron’s private party at his grand home- the man who he’d sort-of-accidentally-saved in a moment of thoughtless goodness. A bit of a slip up. And he is welcomed into the throng of the party with cheers- some lips curled in disdain- and enthusiasm. He is kissing the hands of women. He smells of perfume and he is preparing himself to put on another show for the crowd. 

He is getting tired of it all. 

And it is then that Crowley sees Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS I've written this like a Shakespeare play because I want it to be a comedy, filled with misunderstandings! Hence God as the narrator and the 'act I scene II' etc. Hope you guys enjoy that!!


	2. ACT I: Scene II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a lot to come to terms with in this chapter.

**Enter Aziraphale**

It’s been a good couple of hundred years since Aziraphale was last in Italy. 

The summer of 1502 had been hot, and Florence had been thriving. Aziraphale had stayed there for quite some time, watching the churches and cathedrals pop up like flowers in a meadow, and he’d been very pleased to witness it, too. Heaven had also been delighted with his work. Somehow, that sort of put a dampener on his spirits- soured the sweet success of his achievements, though he couldn’t say why. 

That was the summer he’d met Michaelangelo. He’s heard great things, of course, found out what he was planning with the Sistine Chapel, and thought- _well, I suppose I ought to pop in on the old chap and take a look see_. Whilst the Chapel was still being painted back in Rome, Aziraphale stuck his head around the artist’s door one day at his workshop in Florence.

He had found a very large, naked man being carved into marble. 

“This is David,” Michaelangelo had said, without turning around to look at the stranger who’d walked right into his workshop. The artist had only continued to chip away. And then he’d slapped the marble statue’s thigh, like it was a well-trained horse. “Love of my life.”

Aziraphale had stood in the doorway and watched him work. It became immediately clear that Michaelangelo was like many other artists- very gay, and possibly slightly unhinged. 

Crowley had swung by that summer, too. The three of them made quite a bizarre little team, but good friends nonetheless. Strange, mismatching people put together often do make good friends, Aziraphale has noted over the years. 

Now, it is 1745 and Aziraphale is in Venice- and whilst, he thinks, in many ways Italy hasn’t changed that much in the past couple of centuries, the pendulum has rather swayed in Hell’s favour. 

Venice is positively teeming with sin. 

He arrived a couple of days ago to scout out the whole Venice-has-gone-bad situation, snooping about the local Catholic church where corruption is rife. The church has never been immune to sin, but now it’s positively an incubator for it. He’d come straight from the Vatican, which, quite frankly, hadn’t been much better. And since then, as of today, the beginning of Carnevale, the whole city has exploded with colour and the smell of fermenting grapes. 

Tensions seem high these days, and the Venetians appear to have decided to release some of it by getting uproariously drunk for weeks on end. The streets are filled with people in gowns. People behaving terribly in masks, with feathers sprouting out of them as if they’re trying to regress as much as possible to being animals. Wine is spilled on the cobble-stones, food is passed around, music is everywhere, the sound of songs from different parts of the city mixing in the air. Some people are linked arm in arm meandering about the narrow streets, laughing with bottles in hand. Some have maintained a level of dignity- they pass by with an air of mystery and superiority, draped in pearls and silk and gold. 

The whole place is chaos. Aziraphale can’t tell whether he loves it, or hates it. 

Now, on this fine, warm evening, he walks down the cobbled streets looking the part. He absolutely refused to wear one of those silly white wigs, particularly since he already has white hair, so he’s done his best to curl it in a similar fashion. He is, however, wearing a frankly enormous hat that cost him an absolute fortune (paying full price rather than haggling- he may have miracle abilities but he’s not a thief, thank you very much) which shades his head from the sun rather well. And then there’s the layered white frills of lace pouring everywhere, at the end of his sleeves and at his neck. A rather beautiful ivory-white coat with blue embroidered flowers, gold thread around the seams and matching white trousers, white stockings tucked in. And, of course, a mask to match. 

This is actually, even for him, a little too much. 

Two ladies in their huge bustle-dresses and feathered heads shuffle forward, chattering in low, gossiping voices. They approach with absolutely intention of stepping out of the way or allowing Aziraphale to pass. It means that he has to plaster himself against a wall to let them through. 

“Oh, Lord, sorry,” he babbles, flustered. 

He gets a plume of feathers in his face before they totter away, casting him disdainful looks. He glares back at them. 

“Charming,” he mutters. 

And so he continues on his way to his destination- Palazzo Bragadin Carabba, the home of the illustrious Bragadin family in Campo Santa Marina. Senator Matteo Bragadin lives there. This matters because Senator Matteo is a patrician, who has named himself patron of a very wicked man indeed. 

Giacomo Casanova.

At least, Aziraphale’s been told he’s wicked. The Pope said he wasn’t a fan. In fact, most of the church hate him. His name is on the lips of everyone in Venice- Casanova, heart-breaker and socialite. Casanova, with wily wit and a smile that sets anyone’s heart racing. Casanova, the mischievous little devil. 

_He sounds like rather a lot of fun,_ Aziraphale thinks lazily to himself, though he’d never admit this out loud. Then, more seriously, _And any man who challenges the church these days must be one of complex morals._

The music is louder in this quarter of the city. Waking parallel to the canal, a gondola of some incredibly drunk young men drifts by, one of them roaring with laughter as the other drops the oar in the water and attempts to fetch it. Aziraphale leaves them to it, though mentally nudges the oar a little closer to the lad. 

And then he turns the corner, and there is the entrance to the palazzo. A white arch with an iron gate. Candles lit in the courtyard beyond and women lounging on the benches. The walls a deep red terracotta, the balconies bathed in the light from inside, adorned in vines. The beautifully intricate iron-wrought windows swung open, to let the sound of people outdoors. Aziraphale gives the palace guards his best miracle smile and is allowed in without any questions. The guests in the courtyard survey him with vague interest.

He is led to the ballroom, and the number of people is staggering. 

There are people drinking and watching the dancing on the side lines. There are groups of women giggling amongst themselves, men posturing, men flirting with women, women flirting with women, men flirting with men. A band plays at one side of the room, string music swelling and echoing against the walls. Chandeliers fall from the panelled ceiling like stars, the walls painted dusty pink and cream and gold. Some of the panels are painted more delicately, depicting the Italian countryside. The tiled floor sings with the sound of hundreds of feet dancing. 

Aziraphale stands at the entrance. He watches the proceedings with a familiar feeling of imposter syndrome, straightening out his outfit and scanning his eyes over the scene. There are chairs placed about, mostly occupied by people who look like they’ve either drunk too much or danced too much. Aziraphale considers taking one of those seats; he reckons if he can just take a second to get his bearings, he’ll recognise Casanova in an instant, and when he does, he can find out a bit more about the bloke and possibly tempt him towards being a little less of a scoundrel. Yes, he thinks, gratefully accepting a flute of prosecco from a waiter and searching the crowd from a distance. All he needs to do is-

His heart jumps. His eyes widen. He almost drops his glass. 

“Oh _God_.”

There, standing on the far end of the room, unsmiling but with a gleam in his eye, is Crowley. 

He currently has some noblewoman's hand in his. He’s wearing his copper hair curled like the rest of them, his outfit mostly black all for the red silk shirt he’s wearing that’s buttoned dangerously low. It drapes off of him finely, showing off his slender shape, a little peek of his clavicle. He wears sunglasses that shelter his eyes from most angles. It leaves no room for a mask, so he’s artfully attached some feathers to the stem of the glasses. Around his neck he wears a black, courtesan’s choker. And so there’s something quite feminine about the look, which is unsurprising, since neither Aziraphale nor Crowley have ever slotted neatly into any particular gender. It’s a look that’s turning people’s heads, Aziraphale’s included. 

The angel clears his throat, and makes his way over to Crowley. 

He hasn’t seen him in over a century. He’s been worried about him. _Angry_ at him for making him worry. And whilst there have been plenty of other centuries where they haven’t seen each other, this is different- something had been off, last time. Crowley had disappeared without explanation, without announcing where he was going, nothing. And now, he’s in Venice, and Aziraphale isn’t exactly surprised, but he _is_ -

He’s-

Well, he doesn’t know what he’s feeling. 

Aziraphale pushes through the crowd. People move obliging out of the way, seeing the purpose in his eyes. Crowley hasn’t noticed him yet. Instead, he’s bent down to gently kiss the noblewoman’s hand. 

The sight makes him falter. Just for a second. And then, he shakes his head, ploughing towards his best friend. 

Are they still friends?

“Crowley.”

The demon’s eyebrows raise, and his head snaps towards Aziraphale. His mouth falls open. He jolts bolt-upright. 

He practically throws the woman’s hand out of his, as if he’s been caught stealing.

“Aziraphale?” he demands, face scrunched in confusion. “What’re you doing here?”

The noblewoman looks between them in disgruntlement, clearly feeling that her moment with Crowley has been ruined. Aziraphale doesn’t take any joy in the satisfaction that gives him. She takes her leave, realigning her mask. 

Aziraphale furtively casts his eyes about their surroundings, steps forwards, close enough for only Crowley to hear- whose brows remain raised, his face a little slack in surprise. “Has all of this been your doing, then?”

He scowls, bats a hand at him. “ _No,_ it never _is_ just my doing, is it? It’s always the humans that get there with the corruption and whatnot first- you didn’t answer my question, what are _you_ doing here? Venice? Hotbed of sin?”

“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it. I’m here to try and fix it, aren’t I?”

“Are you now?”

“Yes!”

“And how do you propose to do that? Add a little pinch of holiness? Build some more churches?” Crowley wrinkles his nose mockingly, a look that says, _do you really think that’ll make a difference?_

The music continues to fill the room, and people chatter around them. Someone laughs in the group gathered beside them- a posh, obnoxious sound that floats above the rest of the noise. And Crowley stares at him expectantly, face powdered and lips suspiciously glossy. 

“I- well, I haven’t figured it out yet,” Aziraphale manages. “I’m supposed to be here looking for someone. You must have run into him by now, he sounds like he’s one of your lot- his name is-”

“Casanova!”

A gentleman in a bottle green coat strides towards Crowley, and they bow in greeting. Crowley flashing a toothy, devilish smile. The gentleman lays a friendly hand on his shoulder, mutters something along the lines of _I have to be sociable, first, but I’ll try and find you later for a game of cards_ , before disappearing into the crowd with his lady friend. 

Aziraphale watches the interaction. He watches Crowley turn to him, pursing his lips a little sheepishly. 

And then, it clicks. Aziraphale gasps.

“ _No!_ ”

“‘Fraid so,” Crowley winces. 

“Dear boy, what do you think you’re playing at?”

“It’s, ah- look,” Crowley rolls his head back in frustration. “Listen, it’s just for a while. It’s a favour, for an old friend.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Long story. Um. Essentially- it all started because the real deal, the actual Casanova-” 

He pauses to check their surroundings, then shakes his head. Crowley lays a hand on Aziraphale’s back and leads him to the edge of the dance hall, a quiet spot beside a table of empty glasses. The feeling of his hand almost makes Aziraphale jump; it’s been a long time since he’s felt any kind of physical contact from anyone, let alone Crowley. 

They take their place in this relatively quiet part of the ballroom, Crowley frowning above his sunglasses and looking seriously over Aziraphale’s shoulder, checking for prying eyes or ears. “Alright, it’s- it’s actually very easy to explain.”

“I’m dying to hear whatever mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time.”

Crowley turns that frown towards him, tilting his head a little in disbelief. “Are you- you can’t can’t be serious. Hypocritical isn’t even a strong enough word for you- I am _constantly_ saving your arse from getting discorporated, and here’s me. Getting involved in what’s, essentially, no more dangerous than-”

“My dear. The point?”

“Point is,” Crowley rubs his face. Aziraphale notes that he seems tired. When he continues, his voice comes out strained. “It goes like this. I meet Giacomo Casanova. Nice enough lad. A bit… exuberant at times, you could say? Anyway, I get to know him quite well, we all get up to no good. You know, just the odd practical joke, minor annoyance. Little temptations here and there.”

“Big enough to-” Aziraphale waves his hands in a vague gesture to the whole of Venice.

“No. No, no. Not really. Venice was already heading that way.” 

Aziraphale can believe it. And the both of them know that, truly, Crowley was never really that kind of demon. He’s been more horrified by some of the more amoral deeds Aziraphale’s had to carry out than anything he’s done himself. Noah’s Ark included. 

“Anyway,” Crowley continues. “Giacomo heads to Corfu with the troops. Come back looking really awful. Really… Disgusting, human stuff. Some illness that he’s had since he was a child, apparently, that’s crept up on him again. I don’t know how this stuff works really, but… he’s not doing well.”

Aziraphale feels his shoulders loosen a little. The tight expression on his friend’s face makes him want to reach out. He doesn’t. 

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he says more quietly. 

“It is what it is,” Crowley continues tensely. “Not dead yet, anyway. Been a couple of years and he’s still fighting.”

“Oh. Well, that’s something.”

Crowley just shakes his head. The music is too cheery for this oddly sensitive moment. Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. 

It’s so hard, becoming close to humans. Only to watch them expire, like everything else in this world. Everything but the two of them. 

“ _Anyway._ ” Crowley takes a deep breath. “Anyway, he wanted me to, well, do him a favour.”

Aziraphale waits for him to expand. He doesn’t. “He wanted you to _be_ him?”

“Yeah, sort of- carry on his name. Said I was the only one he trusted to- listen, you can’t tell anyone alright?”

“Why on earth would I?”

“Because you’re an angel, and you’re here to _cleanse the city of sin_ ,” he whinges in a mocking tone. “And because you can’t call me Crowley, not here. You need to remember, angel, I’m Casanova, now.”

Aziraphale nods a little to himself. He pushes away the temptation to pinch his nose and sigh. Instead, he just sighs. This whole situation is absurd. Like one of Shakespeare’s comedies, with all this fake identity nonsense- although it’s a lot less funny, now that he’s living it. 

“Yes. Alright,” Aziraphale concedes. “Well, you ought to know, I wouldn’t have reported this back to the office anyway.”

“Come off it.”

“I’m _serious_ ,” Aziraphale argues. “We came to our agreement, didn’t we? I wouldn’t do that to you. That would… you’re my…” He hesitates, and he sees Crowley watching him intently, brows pulled together a little. “That would be rather a breach of the terms of contract. Don’t you think?”

And Crowley’s relatively soft expression hardens into something more guarded. “Terms of contract,” he mutters. Then, lightly, too lightly- “Yep. Alright. I trust you, I suppose.”

“Good,” he replies assertively. His eyes scan the room, and no one seems interested in them- they’re all far too interested in themselves. “Good. Because, you know. I trust you, too. And. Well.” He swallows. Crowley raises his brows expectantly. “A friend doesn’t dob in another friend.”

Crowley’s mouth twitches. He looks to the floor. Sniffs. Scratches his neck. 

For a demon, Aziraphale has found that Crowley displays a remarkable array of human emotion. 

“Alright,” he agrees tightly. “‘Nough said.”

“Actually, there’s one more thing you could explain to me.”

He can’t see his eyes, of course, but Aziraphale can tell he’s rolling them. “What is it?”

“Well. Isn’t Casanova meant to only be twenty three years old?”

For a moment, Crowley seems a little speechless, merely stares at him. His words come out garbled, before he finally manages, “Ye- yes, thank you, fucking hell, Aziraphale, just say it outright and tell me I look old, alright? Don’t hold back, will you?”

“No, no! I’m only saying that-” Aziraphale flounders, hates the flush of embarrassment that heats up his face. “I mean, surely people knew him before he got sick? Are you really sustaining a miracle on a daily basis to convince everyone you’re him?”

“Oh, _well saved_.”

“For Heavens’ sake, I wasn’t making a poke at your age, Crowley-”

“Yes, it’s- I’m convincing them all I’m him with powers, and at this point it’s getting fucking exhausting.”

It explains why he looks so tired. Aziraphale’s momentarily distracted by a man and a woman laughing to themselves, running out of the double doors and looking like they’re seconds away from ripping each other’s clothes off.

“Well-” Aziraphale starts. 

“Nice mask, by the way.”

Aziraphale shuts his mouth. Opens it again. Smiles uncontrollably, preens a little. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head in irritation at himself. “Uh- yes, thank you. I bought it at that little shop a few streets down- anyway, I was about to say that- well, couldn’t you just, you know. Heal him?”

Crowley tilts his head from side to side, twisting his lips. “Not- not really. Mostly because I’ve sort of accidentally already saved someone. My patron, or whatever you want to call it.”

“Oh _yes!_ You saved Señor Bragadin from a stroke! You know, Crowley, that was awfully good of you-”

“Don’t,” he snarls in warning.

Aziraphale holds up his hands, but he’s not doing very well at wrestling the smile off his face. “So, Hell are keeping an eye on you, then?”

“Mmm. Only reason they didn’t punish me for that is ‘cause they’re so happy with all the shit I’m stirring up these days. What with the gambling and general discord and. Um. All the-” Crowley goes uncharacteristically bashful. “-Liaisons.”

Aziraphale frowns at him. Then he understands, nods slowly. “Oh. Yes.”

He feels painfully embarrassed. Crowley looks, unbelievably, a little ashamed. 

“The other problem,” Crowley adds, clearing his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs over the ridiculous choker he’s wearing. The sight is mesmerising. “Is that Giacomo doesn’t want me to cure him.”

That makes Aziraphale pause. “Well- why would he think that you could? Does he think that you’re a doctor? Unless- oh _Crowley_ , you told him?”

“He’s- he’s a lot more astute than most people give him credit, alright? Really, he figured it out before I even had a chance to-”

“You really are too soft, sometimes, my dear.”

 _“Fuck off,_ ” he bites.

Aziraphale smiles at him. He’s overwhelmed, suddenly, with affection for the man in front of him. He sighs. “Oh Crowley.”

“I said _stop it_.”

“Fine. Well, why wouldn’t he want you to cure him?”

Crowley’s defence seems to slip away a little, showing no small amount of concern. “I don’t know. I’d wondered for a while whether it was ‘cause of the moral implications of… surviving his destiny, or some bollocks like that. I don’t know. Maybe he really thinks it’s the way it’s meant to be.”

The two of them stand in silence, listening to the party roar around them, music fast and jovial, and consider the strangeness of mortality. It’s one of the concepts they have trouble understanding. Having witnessed it happen around them for almost six thousand years, but having never experienced the fear of it themselves. 

The last time Aziraphale had been really struck by the realness of death, felt it to his core, was when Michaelangelo had died. And when Da Vinci had died, Crowley was inconsolable. Aziraphale had let him drink his sorrows away, sharing several bottles of wine with him in solidarity. 

“It’s all so tiring.”

Aziraphale is snapped out of his stupor, turns to Crowley who’s leaning against the drinks table. His chest heaves with a sigh. Shirt falling indecently open. Aziraphale’s eyes linger, before he turns his head pointedly in the other direction. 

“It’s exhausting, angel,” he hears him say in a low voice. 

“Well. Then stop, dear boy.”

“I can’t,” he says through his teeth. “I made a promise.”

It’s remarkable, sometimes, that Aziraphale has to _remind_ himself that he’s a demon. Has to tell himself that he’s from Hell, has to say it out loud to believe it. Crowley is too good. Too good even for him, he thinks, sometimes. 

“You can’t…” _Don’t hurt yourself like this._ “There must be a way.”

Crowley ponders. “I thought perhaps of trying to get myself exiled.”

Aziraphale sighs. “And why, exactly, would you want to put yourself through that?”

“‘Cause then nobody would try and find me.” Crowley looks at him seriously. It makes Aziraphale’s heart do strange things, having his full attention like this. “I could go anywhere in the world. I could leave Venice and just be me again.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s actually rather a good idea,” he says, waving a finger in his direction as he ponders this. “Yes- I could convince the authorities on my side of things to exile you. And you could continue to do _your_ work, being wicked and getting up to your tomfoolery-”

“ _Tomfoolery._ ”

“And then we both win! Heaven will think I’ve done them an enormous favour, whilst Hell will be ever so pleased with you for being quite so naughty.”

“ _Naughty_ ,” Crowley laughs, the mocking tone weakened by something else Aziraphale doesn’t recognise. 

And the party goes on going. Thanks to Aziraphale trying to keep people’s attention away this whole time, giving off a subtle undercurrent of _don’t talk to us thank you very much_ through some minor miracle work, they’ve managed to chat to themselves. But it’s still rather jarring, having a riotous ball go on around them whilst they talk about the reality of things. Heaven and Hell. The daily, invisible struggle between good and evil that has had the two of them trapped- stuck in a contractual obligation with their respective head offices. The impending, celestial war. 

Crowley hums in thought. 

“Yeah.” He nods, seeming surprised but pleased. “Yeah, alright. Let’s do it. Operation: _exile_.”

“Excellent!” Aziraphale rubs his hands together. He turns around, takes Crowley’s side and surveys the party. “Right, well. Tonight really didn’t go how I planned. I was going to find Casanova and see what he was all about.”

“Which you did,” Crowley says with a small smirk, hands behind his back and looking strangely smug. “You found me. You got what you wanted and more, surely.”

Something in Aziraphale leaps in alarm, like a cat caught by surprise. Of course he’s pleased to see him- how could he not, they’re friends and- and- well, actually, he’s never really known what Crowley is to him. But surely that’s not-? He couldn’t possibly be alluding to-?

“I don’t know what you could possibly be referring to,” Aziraphale says primly. 

Crowley frowns to himself, still staring out at the crowd. They watch like they had once upon a time, thousands of years ago at the first Olympic games. Amused and interested in whatever nonsense the humans have devised now. “You were saying you were going to turn up and find out more about Casanova, weren’t you? Well, now you’ve got a win-win situation. More than you bargained for.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says weakly. “Yes. Yes, that’s true. As you say, what I wanted and more.”

Aziraphale swallows, throat strangely dry. 

The crowd has started to part. The sea of masked faces is actually a little disturbing to Aziraphale- there’s something unsettling in not being able to see anyone’s face, even if there’s fun in the mystery. And people start to partner up, ladies and gentlemen accepting the others’ hand and joining the crowd- men on one side, women on the other. The chandelier lights make the silk dresses and coats shine, a kaleidoscope of colours. 

“Fancy a dance, angel?”

Aziraphale looks at him. There’s something so gentle in that expression, despite Crowley’s tense shoulders and strangely nervous, pursed lips. Aziraphale feels a series of emotions rise inside him like wildfires- his mind struggling to stamp them out, one flame cropping up the moment he extinguishes the another. 

“I-” he tries.

“Never mind.” Crowley shakes his head. 

And before Aziraphale can argue- he doesn’t know what to say anyway- Crowley pushes himself away from the drinks table and strides into the crowd. Hips swaying in the way that they do, in a way that defies both physics and Aziraphale’s extensive vocabulary. 

He watches as Crowley walks through the ballroom, eyes turning towards him like he’s magnetically charged. He watches as Crowley approaches the woman from earlier, taking her hand again and saying something that makes her giggle and preen. He watches as they walk hand in hand to the dance floor, taking opposite positions, facing one another. He finds himself transfixed by the back of Crowley’s neck, the whisps of loose red hair. The slope of his shoulders. The slim line of his waist and the remarkably sinuous way his hands and arms move. A hand on the noblewoman’s back. 

Aziraphale watches. He stands at the edge of the ballroom and watches as Crowley dances with this woman. He watches and feels a tightness in his throat and a nauseating heaviness in his stomach. A feeling of something sitting on his chest and a light-headedness. An urge that makes his feet struggle to stay put, rather than march into the crowd and step between the two of them. 

Aziraphale watches and for the first time in his long life, experiences jealousy. But the year is 1745, and he doesn’t know the name of this feeling in his gut. The year is 1745, and it is not yet time for him to realise that he is in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I super hope you're enjoying this... it's so much fun to write.
> 
> PS Crowley’s look is inspired by: http://pm1.narvii.com/6491/9356e3e7c80a5aa0907e8c4e5d5856f19e08c957_00.jpg


	3. ACT II: Scene I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> christ this chapter is long.... it's essentially a romcom montage. because that's what ineffable husbands do best. 
> 
> FYI, If anyone wants to listen to the song that inspired the title of this fic, it's called Sticks and Stones by the Divine Comedy. For very obvious reasons i think this band is GREAT for ineffable husbands. Like. they're called the divine comedy! But also their style is a mix of classical and pop, which is just,,,,,, so them. 
> 
> anyway hope you all enjoy!

**Enter God**

Fake identities, love unrequited, jealousy. You can see how people like Shakespeare came up with the themes for their plays, can’t you? 

And I’m not talking about Crowley and Aziraphale specifically, either. Naturally, Casanova was way after Shakespeare’s time, so there’s no way he could have been inspired by these events. But people in general, divine or not, are just _like that._ They’ll wear different faces and conceal their true selves. They’ll do what they can to impress, do even more to hide. They’ll lie and cry and love- and most of the time, they won’t even realise they’re doing it. 

Currently, the year is 1745, and Aziraphale is very much in love. He just doesn’t see it yet. He is being swept away by Crowley-Casanova, doing what he can to have him exiled whilst simultaneously being delighted by the silliness of his antics. The angel sits in coffee shops with his demon, walks the streets of sunny Venice with his demon, and falls steadily deeper into love with his demon. Falling like a raindrop down a window pane- slow and inevitable. In fact, he has been falling like this for several millennia. I’ve been watching it happen in frustratingly slow motion.

Meanwhile, Crowley-Casanova’s escapades, whilst becoming more exileable, have become significantly less lusty. His reputation still stands- but if he ends up miracling people into believing he’s a heart-breaker rather than actually courting anyone, then. Well. No one need know. With the angel there, Crowley finds it impossible to be with anyone else, even for show. He knows he is in love, and it hurts. For him, unlike Aziraphale, falling in love is clumsy and ungraceful- like a child trying to dive and instead belly flopping spectacularly. _Ouch_. For now, Crowley does what he can to make sure Aziraphale doesn’t see. 

People- even immortal people- really do overcomplicate things. Especially in the case of love. It has been so since the dawn of time. 

Remember too, ladies and gentlemen, that time isn’t linear. Time isn’t a row of dominoes, one effect after the other. And it certainly isn’t a butterfly, however much people rave about the movie. It isn’t a bowl of spaghetti. It isn’t wrinkles of fabric and it isn’t a man with long hair and a bushy beard playing a computer game. Time begins and ends just like anything else does. There’s a neat edge around it- a hedgerow, if you will- a boundary, just like anything else. And the stuff in the middle of it all is just that: stuff.

Time isn’t linear. But there’s no way that the events of Aziraphale and Crowley’s endless, all-encompassing, universally permeating lives could have influenced Shakespeare. 

Is there?

[ _She winks and walks away._ ]

***

**Enter Crowley**

If Hell are watching this, they don’t seem to give much of a shit.

Crowley reckons it’s more that they can’t be arsed to keep a constant eye on him. If it weren’t for the fact that nobody seems to ever pay much attention- even during this particularly high-profile time for Crowley- he’d worry that Hastur might rock up and spot him hanging out with an angel. Aziraphale’s obnoxiously loving aura, at least, is strong enough to make any nearby demon wave the air in front of their nose and go _pee-yew_. Any demon other than Crowley, that is. But then, Crowley seems to be the only nearby demon, nowadays. Over the past couple of years since he became Casanova, Hell has left him to his own devices.

Of which he’s very glad, because Aziraphale is currently sipping a nice glass of moscato del Veneto right beside him. 

There’s an almost imperceptible smile on Aziraphale’s lips, eyes wincing as he looks out at the sunny lagoon. They are both sat outside a restaurant by the water. A gondola drifts by, noblemen making their way to the island adjacent, and people in the water taxis sing and laugh and gossip. It is May and the canals are as blue as the sky above, the colours of the building facades dancing in the water’s reflection. The dome of Santa Maria della Salute rises over the rooftops in the distance. The sun is high in the sky, and Aziraphale is building a bit of a tan as he basks in it. Crowley does his best to powder his face and appear as pale and posh as possible- he’s not ruining his efforts by getting a tan. He’s therefore sat in the shade, slouched in his chair and sloshing the white wine in his glass. 

“I could very much get used to this,” Aziraphale remarks lightly. His shoulders rise a little with a contented sigh. 

Crowley watches the way the sun highlights the edge of his hair. 

“It’s nice when it’s warm,” he muses slowly. There’s no point in rushing anything when the temperature is so hot and the air is so humid. “London’s never sunny like this.”

“Oh, there was the odd summer. You know, there was that time you and I sat in St James’ Park all day, feeding the ducks, instead of doing any _actual_ work. It was nice and warm then.”

Crowley smirks at the memory. “It’s any wonder the ducks in that park float.”

“I do worry we’ve overfed them, over the centuries. You’re that bad of an influence on me, demon.”

He kicks Aziraphale’s chair leg. Aziraphale casts him a narrow-eyed glare.

“Ducks are just ducks. I never thought twice about ducks till you suggested we start feeding them. Anyway, the pelicans are better. Still can’t figure out why the Russian ambassador thought it would be a good idea to give Charles II pelicans for a gift, but, each to their own, I suppose. Makes good entertainment, watching them attack people. Pelicans are great, aren’t they. Right- yes- it’s decided, we should feed the pelicans more often-”

“Lord, no. Pelicans are mean creatures.”

Aziraphale frowns to himself, and Crowley finds that strange feeling in his chest. The buzzing feeling he gets when he’s having a conversation with Aziraphale. A conversation so natural and interesting and unpredictable and so very _them_ that it simply energises him. Talking about pelicans with Aziraphale restores him more than any century-long nap could. 

“Are you even allowed to think that?”

Aziraphale turns to look at him over his shoulder, his backdrop a vibrant and sun-filled view of the canal. He lifts the glass to his lips and asks innocently, “I’m sorry?”

“Are you allowed to call animals mean?” he drawls, hearing the smile rather than feeling it on his lips. “Aren’t you meant to be more heavenly and all-loving than that?”

“I-! I _am_ all loving. I love all creatures, pelicans and horrible demons included.”

Crowley snorts into his glass. And then- “What?”

“Nothing- didn’t you say that they did cake here? I’m feeling a bit peckish.”

And Crowley, for a long moment, wonders whether he misheard. 

_Horrible demons included._

He wonders whether he should do something. Tease him. Do _anything_. But he doesn’t know what Aziraphale means- and Aziraphale clearly doesn't want to talk about it, as he brushes his coat off urgently and strides with determination into the restaurant to investigate the cake situation. 

And he wants to follow and demand he explain, but there’s either one of two ways that this could go:

_Me? Love you? No, you must have misheard, my dear- oh, I see your confusion. How embarrassing for you. No, I’m awfully sorry, what I mean is that I love demons, as I love all creatures great and small. Not any specific demon. Bad luck, old chap. Very sorry for miscommunication._

Or-

_Crowley, dear boy, of course I love you! You’re my wily ally, and, dare I say it, friend. And friends love each other, do they not? Why? What did you think I meant?_

He doesn’t think he can cope with hearing either of those out loud. 

So he remains seated, legs splayed out in front of him, wine glass tilting dangerously in his hand and shoulders slumping. He feels like he might slide right onto the floor like a silk shirt that’s been blindly thrown onto a chair. The view is suddenly far too bright, the sun too hot, even in the shade. And he stares into space, the happy, easy feeling he’d been experiencing moments ago replaced with a gnawing in his chest and lethargy. 

When Aziraphale reemerges, Crowley has slouched far enough in his chair that his chin is touching his chest. The angel meanwhile, oblivious, is smiling triumphantly to himself and holding a plate and two forks. 

“I’ve just bought the most outrageously expensive pistachio cake!” he declares with a smile that’s brighter than any Venetian sun. 

Crowley closes his eyes, knowing that Aziraphale can’t see behind his sunglasses. 

“Good for you.”

***

It’s light enough at eight in the evening that the sky has that strange ombre effect, dark blue turning to purple turning to orange. It casts the streets of Venice in a blazing hue. Aziraphale has told him about the Great Fire of London in 1666; he wonders if this is what it looked like before it burned. 

He is completely pissed. Drunk as a skunk, and he’s making it abundantly clear by the way he’s singing at the top of his lungs down Calle Regina. Arms linked with his drinking buddies (otherwise known as The Cad Cohort), they bellow the lyrics to some scene from Pietro Metastasio’s opera, _Olympiade_. They’d all gone to see it in Vienna last year, and managed to spoil the plot for everyone in Venice who hadn’t had the chance to go yet. It had been enormously satisfying.

It’s the small things in life. 

“Oi! Can it! I have kids trying to sleep!”

The four of them stop as they stumble down the street. Crowley cranes his neck up to see an angry looking woman hanging out her shuttered window.

One of his compatriots waves an empty bottle of wine in her direction. “Just give it some whine, that’ll knock the little bugger out!”

She bustles. “You should be _ashamed_ of yourselves!”

And then she slams the shutters closed again. The four men dissolve into drunken laughter. YThey stumble towards the nearest bridge as they giggle, Crowley veering into the wall a little. He pushes himself away, zigzagging along the road.

“Oi, Casanova, where'd your friend go?”

Crowley opens his mouth and closes it again. Scratches his head and puts his hands on his hips, making a show to look as if he’s searching for Aziraphale- knowing full well where he’s gone. They have a plan, see. 

“Oh look! He’s gone! I have no idea. Where could he have scampered off to?”

“I’ve got to say, mate, never seen another person put it away as much as that Aziraphale of yours,” says one of his buddies. A cherub face and dark angelic curls, but absolutely nothing innocent about him. “You two can drink like nobody else, I swear!”

“Pfft, just- practice, innit,” Crowley slurs. 

“Reckon he’s alright?”

“Oh, yeah, he’ll’ve just wandered home, I think,” he lies.

They’re crossing the bridge, very slowly and chatting very loudly, when one of them announces-

“How cold you think the water is this time of year?”

“It’ll be freezing, mate, it doesn’t warm up till-”

“Anyone fancy a dip?”

“No fucking way, you couldn’t pay me-”

“Ah, go on. What’s the harm in a little swim?”

The three of them turn to Crowley as he says this with a collective gleam in their eyes. 

“You sound eager, Casanova.”

“Want to go for a dip, Giacomo?”

He shrugs, a smirk splitting his face. And then he hops onto the edge of the tiny bridge, holding out his arms like he’s being nailed to the cross. 

“Oh shit, he’s really going to do it!”

“He's off the fucking chain, this one-!”

And then he lets himself fall backwards. It’s only a five foot drop, or thereabouts. It’s not particularly impressive, but it’s what the real Casanova would do, and the others seem mightily excited by it- and that’s the whole point of all this in the end, really. He hits the water hard, not very elegantly, and it’s cold. Really, very cold. And murky. And deep. And he has to try very hard not to swallow a bellyful as he plummets through the pitch black water, sunglasses slipping off. He replaces them before he emerges, spitting out a fountain of water. 

The Cohort applaud, whooping excitedly from the bridge. 

“You’re mental, mate!”

And so Casanova begins to backstroke down the canal, whistling as he goes. That brings the others an enormous amount of entertainment, too. Crowley notes that the water’s quite nice, once you get used to it. 

He’s very much not meant to be swimming in it, of course. But then, that’s also the point of all this. 

“Don’t be stupid, Giacomo, get out of there- that’d be a stupid way to get arrested, wouldn’t it?”

“Lighten up, it’s just a bit of fun!”

Crowley listens to these men bicker, men who he’s barely friends with. He only tolerated with them in the first place because he enjoyed the real Giacomo’s company. But now, he has to pretend that he actually, actively likes them. 

All of this is exhausting. Too exhausting. He really wishes he could hurry up and get exiled, already. He has to pretend to be someone he isn't on a daily basis already with Hell watching, and this Casanova business is just too large of a cherry on top. 

He rolls onto his front, treading water as he unties one of the gondolas and pushes it free. Continuing to whistle opera music as he goes.

“There he goes, fucking legend, this one!”

It’s sort of amusing to think that there are people who think that this is outrageous behaviour. If they knew the kind of evil Crowley could be capable of- the kind of evil he’s _meant_ to be stirring up, rather than party tricks. But then, Crowley _isn’t_ capable of much more. He isn’t, even if that’s what’s in a demon’s job description. He’s not good, by any means, but he certainly isn’t evil either.

That’s why he’s in this sodding mess in the first place, after all. 

He’s blowing a lock of red, wet hair out of his face when there’s the sound of footsteps approaching. The thud of feet against cobble stones. And The Cad Cohort don’t think twice before scrabbling off the bridge and down the nearest alleyway, abandoning Crowley. Three guards pop up around the corner a moment later. 

They find him swimming happily in the water with a sweet smile on his face. And then exchange glances, staring at him like they’re just tired of it all as he is.

“Giacomo Casanova.”

“Officers.”

“Get out. Now.”

“Just going for a paddle-”

“We’re not messing with you this time, lover-boy. Get out or we’ll drag you out.”

“I’d love to see you try,” he says. His voice slow like treacle, tempting. 

He’s taking a small amount of amusement out of watching them actually consider it. Watching them think about jumping into the water, when the look in their eyes is abruptly snuffed.

“Ah- yes! There he is! Well done! Oh, jolly good, you found him. The- the scoundrel!” 

Aziraphale is standing at the water’s edge grinning nervously. Wearing the smile he uses when he’s trying to impress someone. Or when he’s acting- very, very badly. He punches the air half-heartedly, eyes darting between Crowley and the officers. “That- that horrible Casanova! What have you done now?”

“Before you get out,” one officer says, ignoring Aziraphale entirely, “Go get that gondola and put it back where it was parked, alright? I’m not messing around with you tonight, don’t have the energy.”

Crowley glares at them petulantly, spits out another fountain of water just to add to the effect. 

“Oi, I mean it. You’re this close to getting kicked out of this city, Casanova.”

He holds eye contact with them- even behind sunglasses he hopes it comes off brazen. He swims to the edge of the canal, ignoring the drifting gondola, and pulls himself out, water dripping off of him. 

Aziraphale looks him up and down, looking somewhat scandalised- as if he’d forgotten water is wet. 

He gives the guards a huge grin. 

“You _come here_ -!”

Crowley begins running down the street- and he grabs Aziraphale’s hand. 

Apparently he’s lost his shoes in the canal, so his footsteps slap against the cobble stones and he’s spraying water everywhere as he runs. Aziraphale runs with him, making incoherent noises of complaint as they go. It doesn’t sound like it’s being put on, either- Aziraphale isn’t the type to run anywhere, no matter how urgent it is. And Crowley finds himself concentrating very hard on not smiling, instead frowning as he sprints down the winding alleys with the angel’s warm hand in his own. The sun fully set now, but the horizon still glowing pink-orange. Their shadows stretch out far on the cobbled streets.

When Crowley is certain that they’ve lost them, he rounds the corner and pulls Aziraphale to a stop. And for a long, perfect moment, their hands remain clasped. Then, Aziraphale breaks the connection. 

He presses his hands against his knees and catches his breath. “Lord, _why_ did you feel the need to take me with you?”

“Because you’re just as much involved in this plan as I am.”

“Yes, but they don’t know that! I was the one who found them and reported Casanova acting like a hooligan in the streets, now they probably think you’ve kidnapped me! Whisked away some noble for nefarious means.”

And if that makes Crowley grin drunkenly, then he’ll just have to feel embarrassed about it in the morning when he’s sober. “ _Nefarious means,_ ” he repeats, elongating every vowel as emphatically as possible. 

He wobbles on the spot, catches himself on the wall with one hand. Aziraphale moves to catch him too. Crowley looks down at the hands on his forearms with a frown. 

And then they’re quickly removed, as if nothing had happened.

“You’re all wet,” Aziraphale wrinkles his nose, taking a step back and wiping his hands on his jacket gingerly. 

“That’s-yeah. Water- I- I fell in water. In a canal. Didn’t you- you saw me, didn’t you, swimming in it? I was like, all, swimming about in it like an otter. _Having a little swim._ Nice and freshing. _Re_ freshing. Refreshing? Refreshing.”

The angel looks at him. He’s clearly sobered up since being at the pub with him and the Cad Cohort. “You really are incomprehensible when you’re drunk.”

“Your face is incomprehensible. Anyway, I’m off. See you next time for our- whatever shit we do next to get me fired. I mean, exiled.”

He starts wandering down the street, carrying his wet jacket in his hand and dripping on the cobbles. The world is moving, and he isn’t in the mood to sober up yet. He wants to feel senseless, just for a while. 

“Crowley?”

He comes to a stumbling halt. Turns around to view Aziraphale. His hands clasped nervously in front of him, gaze a little imploring. Angelic. Bathed in light like a painting of the Virgin Mary. 

“Do be careful. Please.”

Crowley looks at him for a long moment. Looks at how concerned he appears for him, how much he seems to care. It’s impossible to believe. But the gentleness in his expression- so pure and holy. It makes him ache in all sorts of nooks and crannies that he doesn’t think demons are meant to have. Sometimes, looking at Aziraphale gives him vertigo. 

_Fucking Hell,_ he thinks. _I’m too old and tired for this shit._

__“Night, angel.”_ _

__And so he launches himself into his usual saunter, walking down the alley with arms swinging and feeling the angel’s eyes watching._ _

***

“Ooo _ooooh!_ ” 

From across the bookshop, Aziraphale growls in irritation. Were his wings here, they’d be fluffing angrily like a hen’s. Crowley watches with increasing amusement as he spins enthusiastically in his direction, eyes wide in upset and lips pursed.

“Look. Just _look_ at this.”

Aziraphale storms through the bookshop, empty aside from them and the bookseller in the backroom. He takes a stand beside Crowley, showing him your typical, leather-bound book. Marbled end pages, the first letter of the first chapter illustrated intricately. The paper has begun to brown with age. Aziraphale turns the pages carefully, but the rest of his body is vibrating with frustration.

“Looks like a book.”

“It is a book, indeed, and one that ought to be kept properly, like any other!” He exclaims this with a fierce glare at said book.

“What’s ruffled _your_ feathers?”

“This!” he hisses, eyes darting to the backroom as if conscious that the bookseller might overhear. He waves the book in hand, then puts it down to take another, looking through the pages and making another infuriated growl. “Crowley, this is simply incorrigible.”

“You’re- you’re gonna have to tell me what you’re on about, angel.”

And then, shoulders slumping in defeat and face contorted in distress, he finally sobs: “The pages are _folded_.”

Crowley peers down at the pages. “Oh. Yeah, I see now. He’s folded the corners.”

“A bookseller should _never_ -” Aziraphale appears overcome, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He clutches his chest and takes a steadying breath. “A bookseller should never fold down the pages of a book they are reading. They ought to respect the book and the work that has been put into it. And what’s worse, to ruin the book and then sell it- it’s wicked, Crowley. Just wicked.”

“You have a low barrier for wickedness.”

“No I don’t, I just have a low barrier for wicked bookkeeping practices.”

“You’re unbelievable. It’s embarrassing how much you’re flapping over this.”

“Leave me _alone._ ”

Crowley pokes out his bottom lip, as if to say _oh dear, poor baby._ “Do you want to go? Get lunch instead?”

Aziraphale twists his lips, rolls his eyes a little. “Maybe.”

“Come on then, you daft bastard.”

He earns a glare for that.

And so they leave the bookshop, cool and dry and smelling of dust. They both step into the sun in unison, Aziraphale blinking in the brightness. The streets are busy this morning. And Aziraphale stands there at his side, like they’re one unit. Amongst all of this madness, this melting pot of sin, an angel and a demon standing together outside of a bookshop. No one bats an eyelid at the incongruity of it; they slot beside each other like a teacup and saucer. Something about them seems perfectly natural, even to everyone else.

“Not exiled yet, then.”

“Nope,” Crowley replies, popping his ‘p’.

“Well. Just keep at it, then, I suppose! No point giving up now!”

“The judicial system here’s gone to shit, though, hasn’t it. They won’t even keep me in a prison cell for more than a night at a time.”

“Ah, well, that would be your fault, no? Dismantling law and order from the inside with your demonic powers?”

“I… yeah, point taken.”

They walk together in quiet for a while, going nowhere in particular. Crowley clasps his hands behind his back, putting one foot in front of the other. They don’t quite walk in sync, but it’s a close thing as they enter the market place. At lunch time, the place explodes with life. The smell of coffee drifts from the adjacent cafe, and the baker stands outside his shop to berate the person who’s left their gondola in his parking space. Everyone in Venice shouts, like they’re having an argument- a lot of the time they are, but sometimes, it’s just because of their enthusiasm over a particularly good batch of produce. There’s the occasional wolf-whistle from a man leaning against a wall. The odd person recognising Casanova and offering a flustered hello (to which he grins and Aziraphale looks away pointedly).

A thought occurs to him and he sighs. Then says slowly, “I think I’m just going to have to just leave. Run away. Exile doesn’t seem to be working. But...”

Aziraphale doesn’t reply immediately. “You’re concerned about breaking your promise.”

He doesn't need to confirm it. Aziraphale knows him well enough.

“You do need to look after yourself too, my dear.”

“Look after mys- I’m an immortal demon, angel, I think I’m alright.”

“Emotionally, I mean.”

Crowley is startled into silence.

“Maybe one last hurrah,” Aziraphale continues quietly, seriously. As if they’re conspiring, which he supposes they are. Squinting as he watches the busy market bustle around them. “You’ve done enough already. Perhaps just- one last silly act before turning in your badge, as it were.”

And he supposes he has done a lot. These two weeks have been especially busy. Aziraphale has pointed the authorities in his direction more times than he can count- stealing ladies’ hats off their heads, pushing guards into canals. Prank calls. Making drunk speeches at social events that are rather more high society than he’s worth, embarrassing his patron enormously. Supposedly sleeping with lots of people.

Which he’s not anymore, actually, but nobody needs to know that.

“Mmmm,” he ends up replying. “Maybe just one last thing. One more thing to nail the Casanova name into the coffin.”

“That is, after all, what he asked for. Not to be forgotten. To have his name survive. I think you’ve done that.”

Crowley isn’t sure. He isn’t sure he’s done enough at all. Strange, that he should feel more of a sense of responsibility to humans, to planet earth, than Hell.

“You know,” the angel starts, and Crowley turns to look at him. “One day, I shall have my own bookshop. And when I do, I’ll look after it a damn sight better than whoever that imbecile was.”

“You do that, angel.”

***

Crowley lies beside Giacomo Casanova in his room and feeds him soup.

“It sounds like you’re in love with him.”

It’s usually easy to ignore people when they tease him about having feelings for someone. That is because, usually, they are wrong. In this case, however, Giacomo is correct. For such a sick man, he is far too astute- but then, that is how he has always been, since Crowley has known him.

Crowley takes a napkin and dabs gently at Giacomo’s face. There is more colour to his skin these days. “You’ve never even met him. You don’t know anything.”

“I don’t need to meet him. When someone talks about another man the way you do, there’s no need. It’s clear in your face that you love him.”

“What would you know about love,” Crowley bites. “Real, actual love, not just sex. Love.”

Giacomo raises his brows and grins.

Crowley hisses at him.

“You are in love, my friend, and there is little use denying it.”

“I’ve never denied it.”

Crowley sniffs diffidently, picks up the spoon again to ladle more soup. Neither one of them have ever commented on how often Crowley comes to look after Giacomo, and neither one of them are particularly interested in the emotional vulnerability that conversation would require. And so, once a week, Crowley enters Casanova’s room without a _hello_ or _how are you?,_ merely begins tending to him. And arguing with him, to balance out the good deed.

“I’ve never denied it,” he continues, “What’s the point in denying? I know my faults.”

“Faults?”

Crowley fights the urge to wince. It’s alright when he criticises himself- he doesn’t realise how cruel it is until someone else repeats it. “‘S fine.”

“You have never been fine. I have never known you to be fine.”

“Thanks very much,” he replies gruffly.

He shoves a spoon in Giacomo’s mouth, who laughs and tries not to choke on minestrone soup. He pulls his head back rather than using his energy to move his hands and bat Crowley away. “There is no fault in loving someone. Particularly a best friend.”

“You don’t know shit-all about this, just- don’t talk about something you don’t know.”

“I know lots of things. I’m very clever.”

“And you’re aware of it, which is what makes you an idiot, and a fucking annoying one at that.”

“ _You love him_.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes Crowley pause. Then, put down the spoon, laying it in the bowl. There’s something gentle, assured, consolatory in those words. There’s some element of condolence in those words that makes Crowley squeeze his eyes shut, hold onto the head of Giacomo’s bed and lean his forehead against the wooden frame.

He takes his glasses off.

“And there’s nothing, and I mean _nothing_ that I can do about it.” Crowley swallows. Looks at Giacomo straight in the eye for the first time. The man doesn’t seem fazed by the golden irises, the slitted pupils. “We’re on different sides of the battle, Giacomo. It’s… a war that you can’t comprehend.”

“I’ve read _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” he says easily. He’d shrug if he could. “I’ve read the _Iliad_. I’ve heard all the love songs. It doesn’t matter how big the picture is, the story is the same. You are in love with someone who doesn’t yet see that he loves you back.”

Crowley laughs unhappily. “You really, really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You. Are. In. _Love_. And I am certain he must love you back, he’s just blind to it right now.”

“He’s an angel,” Crowley whispers, shaking his head.

“And so it may take him time to come to terms with the consequences of loving a demon. But he will, I am sure. You both have all the time in the world, after all- something the rest of us don’t have.”

All he can do is hang onto the bedhead, close his eyes.

“It’s easier not to think about it,” he begins slowly, exhausted. “I’m not denying it- I’m not denying anything, I’m- that’s the problem, I’m painfully aware. It hurts too much and I have to live every day with the knowledge of it just-” he punches a fist against his chest. “Just. Right here. Every day. Do you know what that’s like, Giacomo? ‘Cause- it’s fucking shit. Alright? It’s awful, and it’s constant, and running away doesn’t help. It doesn’t help, so you just sit in it, you lie in the pain and- and- the awe of how perfect and oblivious he is and you just. Exist in it. And you can’t deny it, it’s impossible to, but you _can_ just not think about it. You can snuff your feelings out, just for a bit, a while. And you go to another country and meet new people and become famous and call yourself Casa- _fucking_ -nova and you pretend you’re doing fine and then you’re not- you’re not, and it’s exhausting and everything’s just- and then he’ll just appear one day. One day when you’ve tricked yourself into thinking you can live with it, he’ll appear and he’ll _smile_ and talk about books and he’ll ruin it. All the effort you put into ignoring it, walking through the fire and not feeling it burn- he’ll turn up one day and ruin it and you’ll start feeling it all again, and it just. It kills you.”

For a while the room is silent. His head hangs heavily from his shoulders. He is defeated. And then he takes a long, lung-filling breath.

“Well,” he exhales, picking up the spoon. “There’s that.”

“Christ.”

“Yup.”

They fall quiet again, Crowley scraping the soup bowl loudly. He blinks away the stinging in his eyes, then quickly grabs his sunglasses and shoves them on his face.

“Christ,” Giacomo says again. “My dear demon, you need a break.”

“Needed one for- ooh, let’s see. Yeah, about six thousand years.”

“No. You need to stop this. Being me.”

Crowley looks at him.

“This is draining you.”

“If- I mean, if it is, then, it's whatever, isn't it. Anything I do is draining, if I wasn’t here doing nefarious stuff I’d be somewhere else doing something just as bad. Or worse. They’d- Hell’d have me causing a ruckus on the moon if it was worth the effort.”

“But all of this- what I’ve asked you to do. It isn’t doing you good.”

“I’m not meant to be doing good.”

“It isn’t doing _you_ good.”

“Come off it. I’ve done much worse.”

“And you’ve done all of those things as yourself. Nobody else.”

Crowley isn't sure he's right about that, but he doesn't argue, for once. He spoons the remains of the soup into Giacomo’s mouth. He coughs, swallows painfully. Crowley watches apprehensively, before moving the bowl away.

“Everything I’ve been doing- it’s stuff I was already doing with you before you got sick. Enabling you to do.”

“But being another man is exhausting. That, on top of pretending all the rest. Pretending not to love. It’s breaking you, I see that now.”

“I’m not- I’m- I don’t want to, I’m not stopping. Not now.”

“You have done enough.” Giacomo smiles mischievously at him. “I have heard things, from my grandmother. She tells me of all the things you stir up, and it makes me so jealous.”

“‘Spose that means I’m doing it right.”

“I heard you graffitied the front of Señor Linnetti’s house. You drew a giant cock on his front door.”

“That I did,” he confirms solemnly.

“You have done enough.”

Crowley sighs again, shuffles to lean his back against the head of the bed alongside Giacomo. He lets one leg hang off the edge, limbs akimbo. “And what? I just- disappear? I could- I’ve been thinking of trying to get myself exiled-”

“Oh, good idea, that sounds fun,” he says, words tinted with sarcasm.

“It’s actually not. And I can’t. They won’t, I’ve been trying. They just won’t exile me, the bastards.”

“Ah, see, there’s the difference between you and I. They respect you too much. If I were able to come back and do what you did, I think I would annoy the world too much- I’d be exiled in a heartbeat.”

Crowley snorts, rubs his face. His voice comes out strained. “Yeah. Well.”

“What does your love say?”

“Don’t call him that.”

“What does your love say?” he repeats in the exact same tone.

No point arguing further. “He… says I’ve done enough. Thinks I should have one last hurrah, then run away.”

They sit side by side on the bed, staring at the wall. The room is lighter; the shutters are open more and more often these days.

“He sounds like a sensible angel.”

“He- he really, really isn’t. He’s an idiot.”

“And you love him.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Yes, alright, tell the whole blessed world, why don't you.”

“I think,” Giacomo says slowly. He pauses, closes his eyes. Sometimes, he has these dizzy spells. “I think… that he is right. And I think I am improving. And, I think that you have done more than enough kindness for me, and that you should run away somewhere beautiful with your angel.”

“Stop it,” Crowley snarls.

“And I think that you should do one last thing. Really scandalise them all. If you want to have an excuse to escape and pass the baton to me once I am better, you must do something terrible. And Crowley, I mean something actually bad.”

Crowley looks at him. He feels an idea germinate in his mind, watches it crawl about amongst his other thoughts like a cockroach. It’s as if Giacomo sees it too, and nods.

“Your reputation,” Crowley says slowly. “Your name.”

“Ah. Crowley, if there’s one thing that I’ve learned,” Giacomo says, raising his hand to pat Crowley’s arm gently, “It’s that life is too fucking short to care.”

***

There are plenty of things in Crowley’s life that he isn’t proud of. Largely, though, his sins- in his opinion at least- have been fairly minor.

In his line of work, he’s meant to have done awful things. He’s meant to have done things that would make any average human want to shove a bucket on their head and cry in shame in the corner of a dark room. However, whilst he has done some fairly terrible deeds, they are no more terrible than what God herself has ordained. That great flood. The ten plagues. The church, as an organisation in general. No, most of his evil doings are the slow-build type. Crowley’s sins are the equivalent of a broken bathroom tap that seems easy to ignore, perfectly harmless. But it won’t stop _drip drip drip_ ping and, over time, the culmination drives you mad.

What makes him a poor demon is how much he tortures himself over it all.

Demons don’t torture themselves. They torture other people, and walk away guilt-free. At least, that’s how Crowley’s colleagues appear to glide through life, whilst he goes over the same moments over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again until it practically brings him to tears. He thinks about the days before his fall. Thinks about what he could have done, should have done. Agonises about the cruelty of it, the injustice. Wonders what he did wrong, what he did right. Thinks about the sins he’s committed, great and small. Over-analyses every act and drives himself into a pit of turmoil- far more tumultuous than the pit he supposedly serves.

People really do carry their own private Hell with them, and Crowley is no exception.

The irony doesn’t escape Crowley as he currently overthinks the fact that he overthinks his actions. He is walking out of Isola di San Michele graveyard, a spade in one hand and covered in mud. He feels sick, defeated, and cowardly. He feels a sense of self-loathing that has followed him his whole life, that sits on his back and breathes in his ear, whispering. He thinks about the fact that he is a demon, torturing himself over feeling guilty for doing something demonic. And whilst, in the grand scheme of things, this deed wasn’t particularly terrible- whilst he’s certainly done worse- he thinks it’s enough to get him out of Venice.

He thinks the reason this particular sin feels so uncomfortable is because it’s for show.

“One last hurrah,” Crowley mutters to himself, striding through the graveyard and throwing the spade out of his hand.

***

Gold eyes stare back at him as he powders his face in the mirror.

He has washed away the mud from his hands. He stares back at his reflection, the shutters of his room wide open and the sound of evening birds singing. Bats swoop outside, the power blue evening sky a backdrop to their black silhouettes. He searches for some rouge for his cheeks.

And then he stands back from the mirror and evaluates himself, his back to the four poster bed. Tonight, he has put in some effort. This was The Last Hurrah- and when people find out what he did, he wants to look good as he saunters out in style.

Tonight, he is wearing black, as he always does. Black choker and coat and trousers. But he is also wearing blue; a light blue that he doesn’t usually don, a loose shirt that is undone halfway to expose his chest. And the black coat is more intricate. It is woven with silver embroidery. And he is wearing his hair loose. Waves of it tumble over his shoulders. In a way, he looks more dishevelled than he usually might- more like a prostitute who’s stolen a nobleman’s clothes, rather than an actual nobleman, as he sort of is at this point. But he looks good. And he feels more himself than ever.

When he goes to join the ball- his patron has put on another affair, he can’t keep track of them- he feels a small wave of guilt. That feeling demons aren’t meant to indulge in. Guilt, because he likes his patron. Señor Bragadin is patient with him and tries to guide him, really puts in the effort. It’s a shame that he’ll have to disappoint him.

The music swells. His shoulders lift. And with every step he takes, he begins to feel like he can walk out of Venice having done something good. Even after all the over thinking, he has at least helped a friend. Agitated some small evil doings along the way. He feels marginally more positive about life.

He descends the stairs into the entrance hall, where people are gathered and finding drinks, introducing each other, saying _hello_ s and posturing. Some people look up at Casanova joining the party with sparkling looks of excitement in their eyes. Some sneer at him.

And then, there’s Aziraphale.

Of course, to Crowley, he stands out from the rest. That day Aziraphale had appeared at Carnevale, he had spotted him approaching and he may as well have been glowing. Angels don’t tend to do this intentionally, and Aziraphale hadn’t that day. But sometimes, it’s like Aziraphale is glowing and Crowley has to wear his sunglasses just to dilute it.

Tonight, he shines.

Crowley’s step falters slightly as he takes in the sight. Aziraphale holds a glass of wine with two careful hands, standing in the middle of the crowd with an anxious pinch in his brow. He turns his head to watch someone walk by, and Crowley watches how his neck curves. His hair is curled delicately, not perfectly like the rest- there is still that messy fluffiness to it, like feathers in a watercolour painting. It looks as if he is wearing eyeliner, though not much, just enough to soften his features, brighten his eyes. And his outfit- silk, silver embroidered, well-fitted. This style suits him so well, the intricacy and softness of the fashion here.

Aziraphale looks about the crowd, and then his eyes drift up to the staircase and find Crowley.

He smiles. Such a pure smile.

Crowley continues down the stairs, a hand on the banister.

The angel works his way through all the people, watching how he goes so he doesn’t lose a drop of wine. “Cro-Casanova,” he corrects, eyes looking him up and down. Crowley looks away. “You look… well.”

“Thanks. You look.”

“Thank you.”

They both go horribly quiet. And they both stare in opposite directions.

“So!”

“So,” Crowley repeats.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “How did it go then? What did you end up… doing?”

Crowley scowls, shakes his head to himself and drags Aziraphale further away from the crowd towards a quiet spot beneath the huge, split staircase. People’s voices bounce off the marble floors and pastel, panelled walls.

Aziraphale looks at him expectantly, positively exuding light the way he’s positioned beneath the chandelier, and Crowley shakes his head again to rearrange his thoughts.

“You can’t expect me to blurt that sort of thing out in public, angel.”

He receives a reprimanding look. “Please, give me a _little_ credit. I was making sure nobody was listening.”

“Alright, fine, whatever- listen, yes, it’s done. And once everyone finds out, you’re going to help me make my dramatic exit, alright? Remember what we planned? Did you do your bit?”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

“Well?”

“Well what, Aziraphale,” he breathes, exhausted already.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what you did? What wicked deed you accomplished tonight?”

Crowley tilts his head from side to side, not really wanting to share this with Aziraphale for fear of- well, he supposes for fear of being judged. But then, there’s no point being afraid of that. He’s been judged and found wanting already, by God herself. Nothing should be worse than that.

And yet he cares a lot more about what Aziraphale thinks than anyone else.

He growls in defeat, more irritated at his internal struggle than Aziraphale’s curiosity. “Alright, fine. I- well, Casanova has a few enemies, some that you’re aware of and some that you… aren’t.”

“Right. This particular enemy…?”

“I-” God he’s so ashamed. “I slept with his wife.”

Why is he ashamed? It’d been a fun night, it had been mutually beneficial, and the husband really is a horrible man. And not that it matters now, but he hadn’t been aware in the first place that she was married until after the fact.

And why does the lack of surprise on Aziraphale’s face hurt so much?

“Right,” Aziraphale repeats, “And so…?”

“He’s since made Casanova’s life a bit miserable wherever he can, so I thought I’d give him a scare.”

“Meaning?”

“ _Well_ ,” he begins, wrinkling his nose dismissively. “It’s not that bad. Honestly, both parties deserved it.”

“Crowley, the point.”

“I defiled his grandfather’s grave,” he blurts. “He was- I mean, Aziraphale, he was a really awful man. And this bloke too- he gives other demons a run for their money. He’s fairly high up in the pecking order so, when he finds out what I did, and,” he laughs mirthlessly, “he _will_ know it was me, then he’s going to go, for a lack of a better term, _fucking feral_.”

Crowley purses his lips. Aziraphale has been listening seriously, nodding with a deep set frown. The party continues around them, people laughing and drinking and eating and gambling, and Aziraphale merely stands before Crowley and waits. And then he blinks and his expression shifts into surprise.

“Oh,” he says.

That’s an unexpected response. “What? ‘Oh’ what? What’s that meant to mean?” he demands.

“Well,” the angel begins, looking more and more taken aback, brows raised. “I don’t know, really. I suppose it just isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, given how anxious you were about it. I thought you were going to kill someone.”

“Wh- kill someone?”

“Yes- I mean, someone who deserved it, maybe.”

“Deserved it?” he repeats.

“Yes- stop looking at me like that!”

Crowley corrects himself- he’s grimacing at him, lips curled and wincing in utter bafflement. And possibly feeling a bit offended. “Christ,” he eventually mutters. Then he exhales. “I sometimes forget you angels are just as bad as us- no, not this time. Been a while since I’ve killed anyone. Tend to avoid if possible. _Jesus_.”

“That- well, that is the best way to go about things. Not killing,” Aziraphale rushes, apparently desperate to explain himself. “I’m not condoning it, of course! I’m just saying- well, we’ve all had to get our hands dirty, haven’t we. I mean, I’m the good one of the two of us, and I’ve still… you know.”

“Fucking Hell.”

It almost makes him laugh. He forgets the things that Heaven do sometimes, for what they call the greater good. The irony of it all is genuinely funny, and he finds himself grinning, taking a flute of prosecco from a passing waiter.

“You’re _laughing_?” Aziraphale demands, flustered.

“No I’m not,” he says through a laugh.

“You’re laughing at _me_ , aren’t you.”

“I’m- I’m genuinely not. ‘S fine. Anyway,” Crowley says, taking in a deep breath and smiling at Aziraphale, who looks a little put-out. “That’s that. Hopefully it’ll do the trick. And after a couple of years when and if Giacomo’s better, he can come back and get back to his usual shit. Oh, thank you, angel, that’s- honestly made me feel better. Needed a good chuckle.”

Aziraphale gives him a side glance, suspicious of his behaviour and looking not at all happy with Crowley at this very moment. That’s alright- Crowley doesn’t mind. He can just continue to grin at him.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale begins, and he starts walking towards the crowd. Crowley follows him lazily, shakes a curl of red hair out of his face. “Nobody seems to have come to arrest you just yet. I daresay that means we can enjoy ourselves, one last time.”

“Yeah. Why not. Nothing to lose.”

The two of them enter the ballroom, where the band is playing some slow song in the interlude to allow people to rest between dances. The ceiling has recently been repainted to look like Heaven, cherubs peering down mischievously from behind clouds. The windowed doors are open to let the evening air in. And those guests who recognise Casanova and like him bow their heads, appreciating the unorthodox outfit he’s wearing tonight. Crowley courtesies mock-sweetly, and that gets a laugh out of a few people. It makes others tut.

“What’s it like then?”

Aziraphale says this as he pointedly looks in another direction, both hands holding his glass gently like a flower. Pouting primly. The music dwindles, the string instruments tuning themselves for the next dance, and Crowley stops in the middle of the ballroom. He looks at Aziraphale, begins to walk around him. Trying to understand every angle of him, trying to figure out what’s going on inside that pretty little head.

He takes a sip of his prosecco, peers at him over the rim of his glass. “What’s what like, angel?”

“You know. Making love.”

Crowley’s never been very graceful, but he definitely wins least-graceful award in this moment as he chokes on his wine and feels it dribble down his chin.

“Why- just?” he wipes his face, attempts to regain some dignity. “You’re just asking in general?”

“Well, yes, I suppose. You mentioned that you slept with that man’s wife, I- well, it sounds like you do it a lot, so I was just asking what it’s like. Only an enquiry, my dear, no need to be embarrassed.”

“I’m- I can’t believe this. I’m not embarrassed-”

“Nothing at all to be ashamed of. Simply the birds and the bees-”

“Stop, Christ, I’m begging you, _stop_.”

He huffs, turns pointedly away from Aziraphale and tries to gather himself. There’s a very obvious reason as to why he’s embarrassed- it has nothing to do with being ashamed of his sexuality. It’s something he’s quite proud of, actually, generally speaking. But everything he knows about himself is flipped on its head when he’s with Aziraphale. Talking about sex with any random person is perfectly fine, but with Aziraphale- no, no, no.

And there’s the fact that he has no idea what to tell him. Sex- he could tell him what sex is like, on a very basic level. But making love? What’s _making love_ like?

He has no idea.

The crowd seems to be betting busier around them, people gathering like insects- colourful, silk clad insects, the room glistening in chandelier light- and the music starts up again. The nobility mill about him with their shoes knocking loudly on the tiled floor, echoing within the huge room. People are taking position, Crowley realises, and he turns around on the spot to find he’s slap bang in the middle of the dance floor.

“Ah,” he mutters, then turns to find Aziraphale. Heart still hammering in his throat. Feeling a lot like he’d like go to hide in a dark room rather than be his usual flamboyant self. “Angel- we’re in the way.”

He looks a little alarmed, eyes darting about the room and fixed on the spot. He straightens out the sleeves of his coat. Then, he gestures to the dancers and says stiffly: “Well, we could always...”

Crowley feels his mouth hanging open, and he closes it. They are stood directly opposite each other in the middle of the ballroom, a harpsichord clinking through its intro. And the partygoers take their stance alongside them, men largely on one side and women on the other, though there’s a nice mix (humans, Crowley has noticed, tend to stop caring about such things when they’re drunk). For all intents and purposes, Aziraphale and Crowley look like they’re about to dance, too.

And then, the men on Crowley’s side of the room bow in unison.

Crowley does, too, holding eye-contact with Aziraphale.

And perhaps out of the two of them, with his loose flowing hair and powdered face, Crowley looks like he ought to be on the other side of the ballroom, but it’s no matter. Aziraphale’s eyes widen imperceptibly- no longer in alarm, but something closer to anticipation.

It sets Crowley _on fire_.

The ladies’ side of the room courtesies, and the strings join the harpsichord. And Crowley has to remind himself how to dance a minuet, and which specific one they’re meant to be dancing right now- he recalls at the very last second as he and the man beside him take hands and do some complex loop-di-loop around Aziraphale, retaking their place. And then Aziraphale and the woman beside him mirror the same action. It is a strange feeling; to feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him as he steps around him. Crowley will often stalk little circles around the angel, and now the role is reversed, he feels strangely self-conscious.

And this is why Crowley hates and loves the minuet. There are several agonising moves where the two of them take hands and turn neat circles with strangers. Several steps where they can only watch whilst their partner dances with someone that isn’t them, and Crowley drinks up every second that he feels Aziraphale watching him. He clenches his jaw and exhales slowly in concentration, in self control and restraint- something he is well practised in. He doesn’t notice the way the man he is holding hands with now flutters his eyelashes at him coquettishly, instead focuses his gaze on the ornate fireplace on the other side of the room only so that he doesn’t stare at Aziraphale.

Crowley has lived under Hell’s thumb for thousands of years. He has lived in torture, witnessed torture, and conjured it himself. And yet this seems more painful than that. This feeling is the worst torture of all, and it’s perfect.

The minuet is long. It is complex and it ends up with them weaving down their respective lines of partners, taking a turn with one woman or man and then another, and another, tumbling down the ballroom delicately-

And they watch each other any moment they can.

The strings reach their zenith and the dancers return to the position. And Crowley knows what comes next- he takes a deep breath in anticipation, chest rising noticeably. Aziraphale merely looks back at him. Looking somewhere between dazed and unrecognisably intense.

They step towards each other and take each other’s hands.

And that’s what’s so remarkable about this dance, Crowley realises, as his skin tingles and sparks like a live wire. After minutes of dancing around each other, figuratively and literally, the partners finally join hands and slowly walk down into the middle of the ballroom again. But this minuet of theirs has lasted so much longer than a few minutes; it’s been thousands of years. Thousands of years of seeing, talking, but not touching. And now, a simple hand hold-

 _A simple hand hold_ -

Their fingers hook together gently. Aziraphale’s grip certain but soft. Crowley thinks his hand might be shaking.

He can’t look at him. Neither of them can look at each other.

The dancers come to a stop in the middle of the room, begin looping around each other once more like leaves dancing along a street, and the two of them lock eyes again.

And now- Crowley is certain now. Aziraphale really is glowing. It’s undeniable- he is literally giving off light. Has anyone else noticed? Does he realise that he’s shining? Should Crowley warn him?

Perhaps he should, but all he does is watch.

And then the music stops. The dancers stop dancing, the strings stop playing, and Crowley can only stare. Stand frozen on the spot and stare, jaw clenched with the strain of holding still the earthquake of emotions that’s wracking his body.

Aziraphale gazes back. And he steps towards Crowley.

“That was fun,” he says simply, a whisper. Eyes darting over to him in his periphery.

Crowley swallows and scratches his chin.

“Yeah. Listen, I’m going to get some fresh air. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“Oh- alright then- are you-?”

He doesn’t stay to hear the rest. He wades through the crowd, ignores the people who ask after lover-boy Casanova and steps out on to an empty veranda.

He takes a deep breath, and his body practically convulses as he exhales. Leaning his hands against the balcony railing and hanging his head.

The stars are out tonight. The air is still thick with humidity but it’s cooler. The moonlight dances on the canal water and the rooftops of Venice are silver. There’s the sound of people pouring out into the streets drunkenly, the sound of music from some other party. Crowley stands there and leans, looking down at the streets below and the canal flowing directly beneath the veranda.

He can hear Aziraphale somewhere inside, talking to some nobility.

He closes his eyes and smiles to himself- finally unable to hold back the joy of that moment he had just shared with Aziraphale. The reality of it will settle in soon- the fact that his love is unrequited. That the angel will see them as incompatible, their friendship risky enough. But for now, he just grins drunkenly and rests his forehead against the cool railing.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. “I'm like a fucking teenager.”

“Crowley?”

He stands bolt upright again, spins clumsily in Aziraphale’s direction, limbs flailing. “Angel. Fancy seeing you out here.”

Aziraphale steps apprehensively out onto the veranda, eyes looking up at him and head ducked. The light from inside mixing strangely with the moon's- half of him is illuminated in colour, the other half bleached with moonlight. He is holding a letter in his ringed hand.

“Whassat then.”

“From. Um.” Aziraphale nods his head towards the sky, gesturing upwards. “They’ve said that they’ve noticed that the guards are on their way to come drag you into prison. And, well. They’re essentially saying ‘a jolly big well done for alerting them and catching that Casanova fellow’.”

Crowley feels himself deflate a little. He leans against the veranda, elbows on the railing and exuding as much nonchalance as he can. He feels the snarl grow on his face. “Great. _Well done you_.”

Aziraphale blinks at him. “What’s that supposed to mean? This was our arrangement after all… a win-win situation for both of us?”

Crowley swallows the bitterness and closes his eyes. Rubs his eyes from behind his sunglasses. “Right. Yep.”

“Alright- well- Crowley, I’d recommend miracling yourself out of here now.”

“No,” Crowley pouts. “I- I wanna look cool.”

“I know we agreed to do it differently but I’m just a little apprehensive about-”

The ballroom doors burst open. The crowd immediately sobers, parting to let a small swarm of guards through. A few people cry out in surprise, and the string instruments come to a sad, screeching stop. Crowley stands up straight again, watches the proceedings from the outside.

“Speak of the devil,” he mutters.

“WHERE IS GIACOMO CASANOVA?”

A guard shouts into the ballroom, voice echoing and booming. He scans the place, plumed hat bouncing as he walks.

“Casanova! You’re under arrest for desecrating the grave of General Alberti and exhuming his body!”

There’s a chorus of gasps.

“ _Exhume_ ,” he repeats, rolling his eyes at Aziraphale, whose hands are playing with each other nervously. “Exhume my arse, I just desecrated it. Didn’t exhume bollocks.”

Inside the ballroom, people turn on the spot to search for him- and then-

“There! There he is!”

The whole party turns and looks at Crowley.

Crowley grins. Rolls up the sleeves of his coat and holds out his wrists.

Aziraphale takes a step back as two guards march towards him onto the veranda. He hears the angel mutter a disapproving _good lord_ to himself, as Crowley, with a flourish, allows himself to be escorted out of the building. He drops his glass to the floor and it smashes satisfyingly.

He’s been excited about the dramatic exit.

People gasp. People cover their mouths in shock, others look pleased. Some people laugh, like this is some game. Or like they expected it all along. And Crowley lets himself be dragged through the room, paraded in front of them all, as if to advertise his shameful behaviour. But he isn’t ashamed- not anymore, because he’s too excited for this all to be over now. To rest, and be himself again.

The remaining guards open the double doors for them to leave. With an ear-to-ear grin, he flicks a curl of bouncing hair out of his face and turns around to make his last announcement.

“Never forget my name!” he calls out into the room. “The name Giacomo Casanova will forever be on your lips!”

With that, he is wrestled out of the ballroom, his shoes scuffing against the marble. He smirks to himself.

And with a snap of his fingers, the guards’ hands loosen, and he escapes.

***

For about twenty minutes, he goes for a nice jog through Venice at night, the guards scrambling to find him. It’s amusing watching them dive into one alley and pop out of another, desperately trying to catch him. When he’s had enough fun, he hops onto the nearest, nicest looking boat and pushes it off into the ocean. He rows it down the island, towards his and Aziraphale’s meeting place.

When he picks up the angel a few minutes later, watching him take a precarious step into the wobbling gondola, he rows them away from the lagoon. Away from Venice. The angel mutters something about Crowley’s exit being far too dramatic.

Aziraphale sits at the prow of the boat, hands on his knees and moonlight illuminating his frown lines and crow's feet.

This could be romantic, in other circumstances.

“Where to, then, captain?” the angel asks with a little head wiggle, chuckling at his own joke when Crowley doesn’t.

“Padua,” he says immediately. “First, we need to pop by Padua.”

“And then?”

Crowley continues to row. It’s sort of therapeutic, and he doesn’t fancy miracling them anywhere just yet. Besides, Aziraphale hasn’t bothered to offer any physical labour. He doesn’t like doing such things, even if he pretends he’s more conscientious than him.

“Dunno,” he replies eventually. Then, “Maybe. Actually, maybe Vienna.”

Aziraphale’s eyes brighten. “Oh, the sachertorte. I love the sachertorte there.”

“Thought you might.”

They drift along a little longer, the moonlight dancing on the water. Aziraphale looking out at the view, half turned away from Crowley. It is quiet. Beautifully quiet, all except for the sound of waves lapping up against the boat. And for the first time in years, Crowley feels still.


	4. ACT III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end!
> 
> I hope you guys have enjoyed this; thank you all so much for your comments and for following this story <3

**Enter Aziraphale**

The thing about him and Crowley, Aziraphale thinks, is that everything between them is unspoken. They know perfectly well that they’re friends, that they’re breaking the rules, that nothing _needs_ to be said. And that works absolutely fine for him. 

That is why he tries very hard not to think about the fact that they’ve both disappeared off to Vienna together. 

It’s the end of the summer and Austria is still very hot at this time of year. Aziraphale finds that, rather ironically, he fares far better in the heat than Crowley. Perhaps poor old Crowley has become so sick of hellfire that he prefers the (hell)shade instead- or perhaps there’s a dash of something vampiric about him, because he spends the remains of the summer skulking in the shadows of restaurant awnings.

By the time it’s dawned on Aziraphale that they’re both free to do as they wish, it’s rather too late for him to overthink the fact that he and Crowley are still spending time together. In the past, they’d run into each other in London or Babel or Edo or somewhere, entirely accidentally (even if much of the time, it feels more like fates entwined; not that Aziraphale really believes in that). And even then, they may only spend a few days, at most weeks together maneuvering around each other’s miracles and counter miracles, before wordlessly moving onto the next job. Life as an angel and demon means going where the job takes you, and that usually means they don’t ‘hang out’ for extended periods of time. But that seemed to change in Venice, and then Vienna. In Vienna, they tore up their terms of agreement without comment. 

And then there’s the fact that they’re not friends. They are, of course, but again, that’s _unspoken._ No, they’re not friends, and if Aziraphale’s ever called him such it was as a joke and nothing more. That’s how it appears on the surface and that’s how it’ll always be. So they don’t follow each other around the globe, they don’t go on holidays to Vienna together, and they don’t share a long summer together sampling various European sweets under the guise of work.

Except they do.

Honestly, Aziraphale had figured that they’d part ways as soon as they’d popped by Padua to visit the notorious Giacomo, but they hadn’t. And that day had been an event in of itself.

Aziraphale doubts he’ll forget it. Seeing the way Crowley behaved around this particular human had been interesting. Interesting, in that it was actually endearing and wholly heart-breaking. Crowley has always remained so cool, calm and collected in Aziraphale’s eyes- acting as though he has not a care in the world. Flouncing about, being dramatic and simultaneously nonchalant. Quite a skill, to combine the two. But that afternoon in Giacomo Casanova’s room had been something; he had been tense, tight lipped. He had made jokes through the very clear pain he felt about the condition of his friend, and it reminded Aziraphale all too much of Noah’s lost unicorns and all those people, _all those people_ who had died, of that poor young man on the cross- and the grim look on Crowley’s face. 

And Crowley hadn’t introduced Aziraphale. He had found it rude at first, had found it rather awkward, but that was until he realised that Giacomo knew who he was already. Began asking him all sorts of questions about Heaven and angels and what was it really like during the Roman Empire? How long had the two of them known each other? Was Crowley as wily as he pretended to be, or was he just as soft as Giacomo thought he was? And Crowley had leant against the wall and glared at him, jaw jutted, red hair reminiscent of flames as he seemed to burn with embarrassment. And that was something else Aziraphale really couldn’t understand.

Unlike Michaelangelo, who the two of them had only known for the few weeks they were required to be in Florence, it seemed a lot as if Crowley had visited Giacomo almost daily for years. 

Crowley promised to return and tell him all about Vienna. Giacomo said _I should hope so, too, got a lot of people to convince that I’ve been away doing something exciting._ And Giacomo had told them that he’d been writing down all of Crowley’s escapades; had been cataloguing it, so that when he returned to society he could substantiate the pretense they’d been holding up over the past few years. More than that, he wanted to write an autobiography. He wanted to start from the beginning and write everything that had happened to him- whether that be directly or through Crowley. And Aziraphale had found something rather sweet in that; knowing that one day, in the future, people might read Giacomo Casavanova’s diary and find a year or two secretly dedicated to his friend. 

And then they’d parted, Aziraphale walking beside a tensely silent Crowley. Even after shucking the name of Casanova from his shoulders and once more becoming Crowley, he seemed tense. Not yet himself. 

Anxious to keep moving forward, from something Aziraphale couldn’t see. 

***

As it turns out, Giacomo returns to health surprisingly swiftly after their departure. 

If it had anything to do with a private miracle that Aziraphale cast on Crowley’s friend, then neither one of them need know. He was simply accelerating a recovery that was already well on its way. 

The real Giacomo Casanova spends that summer touring. He goes to Parma, and falls deeply in love with a woman called Henriette. He has his heart broken, and cleanses his grief by visiting various cities across Europe including Prague and Vienna (although unfortunately, the three of them do not cross paths again). 

Crowley does, however, receive a letter from his friend once returned to Venice. He receives it when they are sat in a cafe in the city centre of Vienna, drinking strong coffee and eating even stronger sweets. Aziraphale watches him read the letter, leaning back in his chair with a small smile and pinched brow. He watches as he tucks the letter away inside his jacket, a knowing chuckle and a shake of his head. He looks relieved, and more than that, content.

He doesn’t tell Aziraphale the contents of that letter, and Aziraphale doesn’t feel the need to ask. 

***

The thing about the two of them is that everything between them is unspoken. And that, mostly, works very well for them. 

Aziraphale doesn’t remember a time when he felt so blasé about work. He had always been conscientious, anxious to follow life by the rules. And, naturally, that hasn’t changed entirely. But since the Agreement between him and Crowley, he thinks he’s rather thrown caution to the wind. Because, even decades later after Casanova returned to Venice, long after his first exile, the two of them have found themselves reconvening in Vienna almost every year. Yet another tacit agreement. 

_This_ agreement is possibly not the _best_ thing.

Firstly, because he knows that Heaven does care- even if Crowley says they don’t. He’s sure they do, they must. He’s done so much miracle work for them down here that they can’t possibly have not noticed- and they were so pleased with how he managed to get Crow- _Casanova_ exiled. They must care. They must respect the work he’s put in all these millennia. 

Surely.

So, at some point, Aziraphale figures, he will have to stop returning to Vienna and larking about with Crowley. They will spot that he’s essentially lounging about, casting only the passing miracle when he feels like casually feeding the hungry and blessing the odd newborn baby. But then, there’s also the counter argument to consider- his job is to follow discord and soothe it with his metaphorical, celestial balm. And if he and Crowley are in the same place, counter-balancing each other- well, then. That’s sort of exactly what he’s doing, isn’t it. Crowley doing the discord-ing, Aziraphale doing the balm-ing. It’s no more counterproductive than his job has already been, just accidentally finding himself in the same place as Crowley.

Not that he’s thought of anything nearly as blasphemous as that.

And secondly- well, the second thing that isn’t exactly sensible about this Vienna Agreement, is that spending time with Crowley makes them being friends far too difficult to ignore. 

He had already felt that calling Crowley his friend back in Italy was a little too forward. But now- now, right this second, they’re sat on the grass outside the Schönbrunn Palace gates, eating pastries, as if there’s no problem at all with this- _thing_ that they have. Watching the world go by, watching the ladies with their parasols and the gentlemen with their excellent hats. It feels far, far too casual for him to cope. Far too easy a friendship.

Aziraphale thinks of all of this as they sit outside, hands resting on his tucked knees. Autumn is well on it’s way now and the summer heat is lifted by a cool breeze. It makes Crowley’s hair flick in the air, and it reminds him just a little of how his tail use to dart about when he was sulking, back in the garden. 

“You know,” Crowley begins, but doesn’t finish his sentence until he’s indulged in a hefty pause. He licks syrup off his fingers in a way that really shouldn’t be as inappropriate as it looks. Aziraphale watches, and Crowley continues, “You know, Vienna’s alright. But it’s too nice.”

Aziraphale looks at the pretty pastel coloured buildings, tastes the pastry-sugar on his lips and strains to hear the sound of Mozart playing his piano- somewhere a few miles away. 

“Yes,” he agrees. “I suppose you’re right. For your purposes, it’s too nice. Lots of work for you to do.” Crowley’s about to reply when he adds, “We’ve been summering here for almost three decades, and this is the first I’ve heard of it being ‘too nice’.”

“Eh,” Crowley shrugs, lying back on the grass and leaning on his elbows. He pouts in thought. “It’s a challenge, sure, but I dunno. Doesn’t seem like the kind of city worth corrupting.”

Aziraphale turns and looks at the magnificent palace before them. Frowns. Then, turns back to Crowley. “Hang on. But you _like_ corrupting nice things. That’s your whole _job_.”

“Nobody likes their job,” Crowley wrinkles his nose. 

And that very small remark really does give Aziraphale something to chew on. 

“Well,” he continues, “I think it’s just the right amount of nice. Maybe not suitable for a demon, but I like it very much.”

“‘Course you do.”

The breeze drifts over them where they are sat on a grassy hill, looking silently at the palace. Aziraphale thinks suddenly that after desert, he’d actually like something savoury to snack on, but Crowley interrupts their friendly silence.

“Feel like I’ve done enough anyway. What with corrupting Mozart.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale responds noncommittally. A little dreamily, as he thinks of schnitzel. And then, when he realises what Crowley’s just said- “Oh- _no_! You haven’t Crowley? Mozart?”

“Yup,” he replies with a grin. 

He feels suddenly very childishly angry. “ _No!_ ”

“‘Fraid so. He’s coming downstairs with me.”

“But- but- his music is so- and-” he growls in irritation at Crowley’s dopy, smug smile. “You are _so_ annoying. Stop hogging all the good ones.”

“Not good, though, is he? That’s the point.”

“Fine, the interesting ones then! You’re collecting all of them for yourself. It’s greedy.”

“Good,” Crowley asserts. 

“ _All_ the good musicians,” Aziraphale laments, sighing morosely. “Hell really do get such a good pick, it’s wildly unfair.”

“Snooze ya lose.”

“But- all those hymns and requiems- I was absolutely certain I’d got him. I was so sure I’d win this time.”

“Now, now. It’s not a competition, Aziraphale,” Crowley drawls, a smile that says he knows full well that it is.

“Bugger off!” 

He receives a surprised laugh for that. “Look who’s competitive,” he says softly.

“I can’t believe it,” Aziraphale continues, huffing. 

“Really? Angel, have you met the mad bastard? ‘Course he was going to Hell.”

“But,” Aziraphale pouts. 

“There’ll be more,” Crowley rolls his eyes. “There’s always Beethoven.”

“I’m sure you’ll steal him, too.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know it yet, but he will manage to get Chopin and Liszt into Heaven. Beethoven isn’t so lucky. 

“Oh!”

All this talk of Mozart has reminded him. Crowley watches with distant interest, breeze whipping red curls of hair as Aziraphale searches in his pockets and retrieves-

“Tickets! To his concert.”

“Mozart’s?”

“Yes! I know how much you enjoyed his music when he was in Salzburg. I thought, well, since he happened to be in the area.”

It has always fascinated Aziraphale, seeing how viscerally Crowley reacts to things. He doesn’t always temper his emotions particularly well, even if he does try awfully hard to appear cool. One of the things he loves most about him- as a friend- is how emotive Crowley is. Right now, his face slackens in quiet surprise. His head moving a little each time he looks up at Aziraphale, then back down at the tickets in his hand, then up at Aziraphale again.

“At the Opera House?”

“Naturally.”

“There’s two tickets.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind going too. Now that I know he’s damned, it- well. That casts a dampener on things. I daresay he could have got free tickets for you.”

“Do you mean to say you paid for these?”

Aziraphale frowns at him. “Of course- who do you take me for? I’m not going to steal from the nice people at the Opera House. I don’t tempt others to give me what I want, like you.”

“I- I don’t do that every time,” Crowley argues with a raised finger, “And I’ve definitely seen you magic your way to the front of the queue at multiple restaurants.”

“You don’t have to go with me if you don’t want,” Aziraphale ignores him, feeling strangely nervous. “But I would like to go either way, so.”

They stare at each other. 

And there’s something momentous about this. About Aziraphale’s outstretched hand with tickets to an event that they’ll attend together. Something remarkable about Crowley’s open mouthed surprise, and the eyes regrettably hidden behind sunglasses. Pastry wrappers on the blanket between them. There’s something very important about this moment, and Aziraphale can’t put his finger on it. He feels the weight of it on his chest, making his breath short. He feels it make his stomach turn, somehow both pleasantly and unpleasantly. He feels the moment open up to him like the sun appearing from behind a cloud. 

Crowley swallows, throat clicking audibly. And then he takes a single ticket from Aziraphale’s hand. 

***

The balcony offers a spectacular view of the stage. The strings are tuning themselves, the orchestra members taking their positions. The stage has been set to look like Ancient Crete- Aziraphale maintains that it doesn’t at all, but suspending disbelief and all that. People are chattering in quiet excitement. Aziraphale’s German language skills are fairly limited, but he thinks they’re all excited, anyway, they certainly sound it. 

He is happily munching some grapes, sat upright and ankles crossed under his chair. Crowley’s seat not yet filled beside him. He’s heard Mozart’s music live a few times, but this is the first that he’s heard _Idomeneo_ , the anticipation is almost too much. Not that he’d ever admit it, but he’s eager to find out what all the fuss is about, and why Crowley has taken such a shine to the musician.

Just as he’s beginning to worry that Crowley won’t return from the bar in time, the demon swoops in and takes his seat on the empty balcony. (Aziraphale had rather cheekily miracled this particular balcony to be empty, just for them.)

Crowley collapses inelegantly into his seat, hands a glass of wine in Aziraphale’s direction. 

“This is alright, isn’t it,” Crowley muses, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Aziraphale smiles to himself, wiggles his shoulders, feeling very pleased. “Absolutely.”

“You do like the finer things in life, don’t you, angel.”

Crowley doesn’t look at him, but is smirking as he stares out at the crowd. Aziraphale doesn’t like what he’s trying to imply. 

“I like things a perfectly modest, angelic amount.”

“Mhm.” Crowley’s smirk grows.

Aziraphale doesn’t have time to argue. The conductor takes the stage, the room hushes, and the music begins. 

And perhaps there is something a little blasphemous about taking an interest in a story promoting pagan gods. But Aziraphale decides instead to focus on the beauty of the lyrics- all in Italian, for some reason he can’t fathom- and the remarkable power that human beings have to wring out every emotion possible in one single word. 

As the opera continues, he begins to wish that he’d known beforehand what the plot of this play was.

Ilia, the heroine, spends most of the time lamenting the seemingly never-ending war. (“She has no idea how lucky she is- at least her war isn’t fucking eternal and ineffable,” Crowley mutters to Aziraphale mid Overture.) And yes, there is certainly something relatable about that, but what’s more jarring is the fact that she loves Idamante, the Greek. Two lovers on opposite sides of the war. 

“ _The fault is not mine, and you condemn me, My love, because I adore you-_ ”

Idamante sings, and Aziraphale feels himself tense. And he couldn’t begin to explain why-

_Because I love him-_

But he feels as if there is some spotlight on him. He feels as if he’s on the stage and everyone is staring at him, waiting for him to say something, staring at him, seeing right through his angelic exterior and into his heart. He feels like wax in a watercolour painting, brought into relief. He feels seen, and horribly, horribly vulnerable. Exposed. And he can’t explain why.

Somewhere in his mind, he knows- he understands why he feels this way. Why he feels so unbearably conscious of Crowley slouched beside him, why he feels his throat dry and his heart race and why he’d bought these tickets in the first place. Somewhere deep down, he feels emerge the knowledge of what all this means, and he kicks it down defiantly. 

“No,” he says aloud, for only himself to hear. He hears how broken his voice comes out.

The Opera continues, the lovers lament, the battle goes on, and people die. The trilling, wretched voices supported by a chorus of cheerful strings, and Aziraphale suddenly can’t bear it. 

He can’t bear it-

He sees himself standing up from his seat. He watches it happen light-headedly, like he is staring at the scene from above. 

He sees Crowley look up at him, a frown above his sunglasses.

“ _Angel?_ ” he sees him mouth.

“I have to go.” Aziraphale looks down at Crowley. Feels his heart break as he watches the confusion settle into understanding. 

_If he understands, then he knows more than me,_ Aziraphale thinks bitterly. 

“I have to go,” he mutters again, before snatching his coat from the back of his seat and leaving. 

He leaves, the sound of the music swelling to a crescendo before the doors close behind him, drowning it out like it’s from another world. 

Aziraphale hails the nearest coach. He stares out of the window and feels hot tears roll down his cheeks, tears that he can’t explain- are flowing from some deep well inside of him that he hasn’t consciously found yet. Some part of him is grieving, hating what he has done and he still doesn’t understand. 

He thinks of Crowley’s grim expression of understanding, and cries as he travels to London.

***

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only humans do that.”

At first, Aziraphale doesn’t think he can believe it. Surely not- 

Surely not, after how he abandoned him in Vienna Opera House a decade ago.

He spins round, smile breaking across his face almost painfully. “Crowley?”

He looks. Well, he doesn’t look nearly as sultry as he did as Casanova, but he does look very done-up. Hair curled, all in black. Leaning against the wall like he’d simply decided to take a nap there, rather than coming to save him from discorporation. He looks-

He looks-

Well, he looks good. Enough to make Aziraphale look away. Then back again, in undeniable interest.

“Oh good Lord,” he manages, trying to sound disapproving. 

“What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille? I thought you were opening up a bookshop.”

“I was,” he replies easily. Although, how did he-? Did he remember? All that time ago, in Venice, in that horrible bookshop? Surely not. He ignores that, decides to focus on the matter at hand. “I got peckish.”

“Peckish?”

And thus their bickering picks up again. Like they haven’t been apart at all.

“I was reprimanded last month. They said I’d performed too many frivolous miracles. I got a strongly-worded note from Gabriel.”

“You were lucky I was in the area.”

Nothing has been truer. Nothing has ever been truer of their relationship, since they began. More than anything, whether or not he feels embarrassed or ashamed or deceitful for being friends with Crowley- he has above all felt lucky. 

“I suppose I am,” he says.

And so Crowley saves him from discorporation. Switches his outfit with his executioner’s, and they both watch as the man is led out to the guillotine. If he has essentially sentenced a man to death for threatening Aziraphale’s life, neither of them mention it. 

***

“I don’t need you.”

Aziraphale is overwhelmed, sickened by anger and hurt and defiance and-

No. There is no way he will threaten his friend’s life. There is no way he would ever do such a thing-

No. Fraternising is what this is. He _is_ fraternising with the enemy, and that is suddenly, horribly clear by what Crowley is asking from him. A demon, who would die by holy water if-

No. No. 

He won’t do it. He won’t be Crowley’s executioner. He is absolutely disgusted that Crowley would ask such a thing from him. 

If he wants to find something like that, he can do it without him.

“The feeling is mutual. Obviously.”

And so he takes his leave- coat spinning with the aggression of his movement. Top hat almost falling off, and he launches the note into the pond with burning _fury_ , sets it alight with his incandescent rage. Horror.

He hears Crowley’s mocking tone as he walks away, pebbles crunching beneath his feet: “ _Obviously._ ”

***

London is burning, sirens are wailing, the world is crumbling.

And Aziraphale loves Crowley.

He sees it now, as clear as day. On this murky night, with smoke and dust clouding the air, he sees his feelings clearly now. They emerge from somewhere deep and integral within him- a fresh, green shoot bursting into existence. It’s been germinating this whole time, he knows- he’d been hoping nothing would grow, but it was too late. It always had been; it’s inevitable.

Aziraphale holds the briefcase in his hands and feels himself lift out of this reality. _Love._ Love. He loves him, and it’s blissful. 

But the thing about the two of them is that everything between them is unspoken. And these days, that’s becoming more and more difficult an arrangement. 

***

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Aziraphale steps out of the car before he can see the crestfallen expression any longer. 

Sticks and stones is all this is. Sticks and stones. 

Because, if Crowley really loved him back, he knows he would have seen it by now. He would have seen it in his aura. Aziraphale can detect love from miles away, and Crowley does not feel it, not for him, at least. 

He steps out of the car and walks away. Finds his feet halting. Finds himself turning to search for the Bentley again, considers going back. He has no idea what he would say, but he suddenly feels cowardly, feels the nausea of regret rising in his throat. _Sticks and stones,_ he reminds himself. 

But when he finds the Bentley, it’s driving away. Aziraphale stands beneath the neon sign of a shop window, the puddles at his feet illuminated in their garish light, and he watches Crowley go. 

He wonders why they feel so out of sync. He wonders when they’ll stop being out of time with each other, and when they’ll finally click into place. 

***

A few decades later, and Armageddon has been averted. Which neither one of them saw coming. 

Aziraphale certainly didn’t see himself attending a wedding, standing in a marquee in Oxfordshire with a glass of lukewarm white wine, watching a lot of incompatible people dancing drunkenly to Carly Rae Jepson. 

It has been rather wonderful these past two years, watching Anathema and Newt grow fonder of each other. The hurdle of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies were certainly a large obstacle; large enough that Newt rang up Aziraphale one day and wailed over the phone about how they’d gone ‘on a break’ to find out whether this relationship was really for them or not. Aziraphale had consoled him, of course, getting a little annoyed by the end of it when Newt wouldn’t stop going on _and on_ about how perfect Anathema is and how lovely her hair is and the fact that she brings out the best in him, and all that. The conversation had been going around in circles. And then, two days later, they were back together again, realising that this break was silly and the answer had been right in front of them all along.

Aziraphale hadn’t really known either of them very well up until that point- when, apparently, Newt had decided he was the only one patient enough to listen to him complain. They’re good chums now, naturally- but it’s that sort of calling-in-the-middle-of-the-night-crying business that makes Aziraphale wish he were a little _less_ nice. And just a little _more_ of a bastard.

Even if Crowley seems to think he’s just enough of a bastard.

And on that note, these past two years for Aziraphale personally have been-

Frustrating.

Perfect. Perfectly frustrating. Sometimes upsetting. 

Now, he watches Crowley tolerate Newt’s mother, who’s determined to talk to him about something Aziraphale can’t hear over the music. He smiles as he sees the way Crowley nods distantly, not listening to a word, holding an entire bottle of Riesling to himself. He begins to drink straight from the bottle, and Mrs Pulsifer seems to get the message then, letting him slip away. 

Crowley saunters past the dance floor, past the DJ booth- not many people give Aziraphale the feeling of second hand embarrassment, but the DJ is fast becoming one of them- and towards him, where he’s sat at their abandoned dinner table. 

Aziraphale straightens in his seat self-consciously, looks at the table, where people have left handbags and phones and disposable cameras amongst the empty wine glasses.

“Alright, angel.”

“Hello,” he says nervously, for some reason. 

And this is precisely why these past couple of years after the failed end of the world have been so frustrating and wonderful. Crowley is just the same. He’s all swinging hips and mischievous grins and long, drunken rants. Just the same. Entirely himself, authentic and emotive, just as Aziraphale likes him. 

And he doesn’t love him. He doesn’t love him back, and it’s horribly painful. Even for a being of love, who loves everything and is used to his love being largely unrequited. Somehow, this just hurts a lot more. 

Aziraphale looks down at his warm wine, taps a manicured nail against the stem. 

“Weddings, eh?” he says.

Crowley hums, doesn’t seem to mind his awkwardness. Leans in his seat and rests an elbow on the back of it, bottle proffered to his lips. “Yeah, not been to one in a while. Actually,” he frowns. “Don’t know if I’ve ever been to one, come to think of it. I think I just assumed I had at some point but… nah. This is my first.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, a smile lifting him out of his pensive mood. “Oh, well- this is a rather nice one to be at, then. Two friends getting married. And two people who met during all that mess that we sort of orchestrated, no less.”

Crowley thinks about this. Some horrible bebop song pounds away, and Crowley pokes out his bottom lip in consideration. “Hmm. Yeah, I suppose we did sort of match-make them, didn’t we?”

Aziraphale’s smile widens further. It reaches somewhere inside him as he looks at Crowley soften, watching Newt and Anathema dance. And it softens him, too. Not that that’s any surprise, he’s soft anyway, but it’s wonderful to see Crowley relax. Watch the cynicism melt away. 

It’s any wonder he did so well to ignore how much he adores Crowley for so long. His love for him is astronomical. 

And so they sit on their chairs by their table, where they’d enjoyed an alright lunch and a surprisingly spectacular pudding with Sargeant Shadwell and Madame Tracey- as well as one or two other people who Crowley ignored and Aziraphale tried to introduce himself to. Shadwell and Tracey are currently completely pissed, dancing to something Aziraphale doesn’t recognise, although he doesn’t recognise any of these songs. Adam and his friends are conspiring at another table, heads together and Adam giving out orders of some variety. His parents are too busy shouting lyrics on the dance floor to notice, Mr Young’s tie loose and Mrs Young looking a little flustered by it. 

Anathema looks gorgeous of course. She dances with far more elegance than the rest, catches Aziraphale and Crowley’s eye and waves. 

They both wave in unison. 

“Imagine if an angel and a demon got married.”

Aziraphale’s head snaps towards him before he can stop himself. He blinks at Crowley, who has just said something completely unbelievable with such a casual tone of voice, Aziraphale thinks he must be hallucinating. 

“Sorry?” He squeaks.

“Just saying. Imagine. Wouldn’t that piss off both sides just- just _perfectly?_ If God approved of that union- well. That’d stop any kind of celestial war cold, wouldn’t it.”

If something sinks in Aziraphale’s chest, he’s only angry at himself for letting it rise up hopefully in the first place. 

“Yes, very true,” he remarks quietly. 

And then the music changes. This is remarkable only because Aziraphale _knows_ this song. 

“Oh,” he says to himself. Then turns to Crowley in excitement, feeling a little childish. “I know this one! This is- oh, who is it-”

“The Ronettes.”

“Yes!”

Crowley stares out at the dancefloor. He isn’t wearing his usual sunglasses; these ones don’t block his periphery. Aziraphale can see him blinking rapidly, he’d almost say nervously. And then, his lips barely moving: “Fancy a dance, angel?”

It takes a few moments for those words to sink in. Largely because he’s immediately shot back to Venice, sharing a dance to a minuet. Hands touching. 

Aziraphale exhales loudly, suddenly hot. “Um. I-”

“Never mind.” Crowley scrunches his eyes shut, shakes his head. Grips the neck of the Riesling bottle. “Ignore me. Pretend I didn’t say anything. Stupid thing to suggest.”

Neither one of them moves, then. 

Funny, almost- how after centuries of pretending he doesn’t love him, of both of them hurting each other time and time again- funny how this is the moment that leaves Aziraphale breathless with the pain of it all. It’s like he’s been sucked into the vacuum of space. Like one of those sci-fi films Crowley has made him sit through, that he’d never admit he’d quite enjoyed. He feels weightless and directionless and lost, and like everything that has built up to this moment, all of the years they’ve spent and _will_ spend together have disappeared. All that’s left is this feeling. 

This horrible, aching feeling. 

_Sticks and stones_ , he thinks to himself. _How wrong I was._

The Ronettes continue to play in the marquee, disco lights illuminating dizzily. For a moment, he looks at the way the roof of the tent changes colour, just to distract himself. 

And then Aziraphale stands up abruptly, chair knocking into the table. Nobody else notices; everyone is having far too nice a time to notice an angel and a demon break each other’s hearts. Crowley, though, he notices, stares at the chair as it rocks back to its original position and looks up at Aziraphale. 

He tries not to think of the Opera house, but-

He turns away, makes to leave the tent.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale spins around and finds Crowley right there, coming after him. 

“Don’t- please,” Aziraphale begs, holding a hand out for him to stop. And God, he feels tears in his eyes, he hears them in his voice. “Don’t follow me.”

He turns away. He leaves. 

He walks out of the marquee, a grey sky overhead and a warm, heavy feeling in the air, like it’s going to rain. He marches out of the grassy garden of the National Trust home that the Pulsifer-Device wedding has been stationed at. He storms. Power walks. Puts Crowley behind him and heads deeper into the Cotswolds. 

And a sob breaks out. He can let himself cry now, with no one to see. 

The wind picks up speed here, high up this hill he’s climbing. The grass tickles his legs under his suit trousers. He feels tears running down his face. He feels his defences crumble- that wall he has spent millennia building around himself, stopping Crowley from getting too close, even though he’s the closest anyone’s ever come. He feels it disintegrate, all that hard work, trying to keep everything at bay, trying to stop it all. Trying to protect the very core of himself from everything; he is an angel who has lived a life terrified of falling, and even more terrified of being seen, truly seen. But he feels that wall tumbling down.

And hasn’t it been falling all this time? Aziraphale laughs bitterly as he climbs the hill, wipes his face. Hasn’t Crowley been dismantling it ever so carefully, bit by bit, since the beginning? Hasn’t he always seen Aziraphale? Whether he means to or not is another thing, but the truth is, Aziraphale has opened himself up to Crowley in ways he would never have dreamed of doing with anyone else. In ways that are _dangerous_. Those defences had done well to hide his feelings- but even if he’d been hiding them from himself, even if he’d been hiding from Heaven, Crowley was always there, being his friend. He is his universal constant, and-

 _He doesn’t love you, grip up, Aziraphale,_ he thinks to himself. 

But that only serves to make him cry more. 

And before he knows it, he’s standing at the top of the hill. He’s looking down at the neighbouring villages nestled amongst the rolling hills, feeling the wind biting his face. That crackle in the air of almost-rain. He’s staring down at the church spires, at the little post offices and shops and schools and thatched houses and all these things that weren’t here, when Crowley and him were first put on Earth. 

So much they’ve done together. So much they’ve shared.

He collapses onto his bum and stares, not really seeing. He sniffs and wipes his face with a sigh. 

“I love all things,” Aziraphale argues with himself. “I love everything, so why should he be different. It isn’t _fair_.”

But Crowley has always been different. That day in Venice- he will always remember that day in Venice, turning up at the palace of Senator Bragadin and seeing Crowley bowing, kissing the hand of some young woman with a glint in his eye. He had been jealous as he watched him dance with her, and he hadn’t realised-

“Such a fool,” he mutters aloud. 

He has loved him-

He doesn’t-

It’s not- 

Even now, after all that has happened. Even after ‘choosing their own side’, nothing has changed, nothing except for the odd fleeting glance, the odd moment where Aziraphale has indulged himself and let himself imagine that things could be more. Or at least, that they could acknowledge that whatever they are- whatever this is, is more, and always has been. 

It may not be the same for Crowley. But for Aziraphale, it has felt like they are souls entwined, right from the start. 

And that thought makes him sob again, perhaps a little comically if it weren’t for the fact that he feels so incredibly wretched. He draws his knees close to his chest and covers his face with a hand as he cries- the sound drowned out in the wind, so much so it almost feels like it’s in his own head. 

That’s why he doesn’t hear Crowley at first. He doesn’t hear him approach, doesn’t hear him call out Aziraphale’s name as he climbs the hill- he only notices him there when he spots someone slipping on some mud in his periphery.

Aziraphale turns in alarm, wiping his face clean. He sees Crowley lying on his back in the grass, mud up his nice white suit. 

“Crowley?”

“This isn’t as dramatic as I’d hoped it would be-” 

Aziraphale scrambles up onto his feet, goes to help Crowley up, who looks like he’s thinking of batting his hand away, before accepting it. He feels a flush of embarrassment, irritation, as he watches Crowley brush himself off, sniffing diffidently. 

“I thought I told you not to follow me.”

“I ignored you.”

“Obviously.”

Crowley’s mouth quirks, like he’s thinking of teasing him, but he doesn’t. He ducks his head. It’s a mannerism he doesn’t really see from him very often. It’s something close to shy.

“Angel.” Aziraphale dreads whatever is coming next. Crowley is looking at him seriously, jaw clenched so he could swear he can almost hear his teeth grind. “Aziraphale-”

“No-” he interrupts, holds up his hands in defeat, takes a step back. “No- I can’t, Crowley, I just- _cannot_ have this conversation, I won’t.”

“Aziraphale-”

“ _Please_!” he cries. And he can feel tears springing from his eyes again, and Crowley’s mouth opens in horror. “There is a _reason_ I wanted to be alone-”

“Don’t cry. Christ, please don’t cry-”

“And why shouldn’t I!” Aziraphale feels suddenly emboldened with how much pain is flowing through him. He gestures to the world around him, uselessly, trying to draw inspiration from his surroundings and finding little. “I am entitled to going off and having a little cry now and then, aren’t I?” 

Crowley gapes wordlessly. His hand moves the smallest amount towards Aziraphale, hesitates.

Aziraphale ploughs on.

“I don’t expect you to understand, Crowley, I don’t. That’s why- I’m not- sometimes, it’s just too much, and I have to run away. You’ll say all these wonderful things and come in and save the day and- you don’t know how much it means, dear boy, and sometimes that’s just too painful to bear. So please, just let me cry by myself.”

Aziraphale swallows, immediately mortified by how raw he feels, by everything he’s just said. By Crowley’s stricken expression, the wind ruining his styled hair. 

He turns around and starts making his way back down the hill.

“Angel- wait-”

“No,” he calls out, feeling particularly stubborn. 

“ _Aziraphale_ , for Go- Heav- Hell- just, come back, would you?”

“ _No!_ ”

“For fuck’s _sake_ -”

“You don’t understand!” he cries, whipping around to meet Crowley again even if he doesn’t want to, even if half of his mind wants to tear him away from this moment. “You couldn’t possibly understand, so please, just don’t bother trying!”

“Understand _what_ -?”

“That I love you!” 

Those words came out far more easily than he imagined. And Crowley just stares, expression pained, as if this is worse for him than it is for Aziraphale- there’s no way it could be.

“I love you- God, I always have, and isn’t that just the way it is. An angel loving a demon? And you’d never understand, Crowley, what all the things you say and do _mean_ to me, so I can’t. I can’t, because none of it means as much to you as it does for me. If- if you loved me,” he laughs, turning away so Crowley doesn’t have to see his face. “I would see. I would have seen long ago, but you don’t and that’s that. This is how it is. Ineffable and all that.”

He finds himself laughing sadly again, staring at the marquee below. It looks small, but he can hear the music from up here. And the breath comes shuddering out of him like he’s minutes away from falling apart at the joints. 

“Aziraphale.”

He’s heard that voice before. He’s heard it in the pub when Crowley thought Aziraphale was dead. _I lost my best friend._ It’s broken and at the edge of tears.

It makes Aziraphale sob, hang his head.

Crowley’s hand turns him around by the shoulder. The only reason he lets him is because he’s tired.

“Aziraphale,” he says again. So gently. Brow creased above his sunglasses, lips quivering. 

He can’t bear to see it. “Crowley, don’t- I’m sorry. I should never…”

“Aziraphale,” he whispers one more time. 

“You don’t need to say anything, I know I shouldn’t have-”

Crowley steps towards him, hands on either side of Aziraphale’s face. 

And he manages a surprised _oh_ before Crowley kisses him. 

It’s a short enough kiss that it’s over before Aziraphale realises what’s happened. But he can feel Crowley’s breath on his lips, feels his cool hands on his wet cheeks. Feels their noses brushing, his glasses digging into his skin.

“These past few decades with you, I’ve actually been _me_ ,” Crowley says, fragile. Like he’s holding onto Aziraphale as an anchor. “Not a fallen angel, not a demon, not Casanova, just me. It’s taken six thousand years for me to feel comfortable with who I am, and it’s because of you, only when I’m with you. Do you understand, angel? Do you understand that?”

Aziraphale does, but he has no answer, he just exhales.

“Aziraphale.”

The way he says his name. With such reverence; something that no demon is meant to have for anyone. But Crowley says Aziraphale’s name like he’s marvelling at him. He’s heard that voice before and he thinks himself a fool for not recognising it sooner. 

“But I don’t understand,” he says slowly, a sob, like he’s a child. 

Crowley strokes his cheek, foreheads pressed together. “What don’t you understand, angel.”

“You can’t love me. There’s no way.”

“How could- how could you even say something like that.”

“Because-” he bites his wobbling bottom lip. Closes his eyes and feels Crowley’s hands on his face, holding him together. Tries again. “Because I’ve never felt it. I can’t see it. I- I can’t see it in your aura. I don’t understand.”

A sigh escapes Crowley, something sad falling across his face. “I’ve tried hard to hide it. I didn’t think you felt the same. I’m sorry you didn’t feel it, I’m so sorry you didn’t see it.” 

He sounds ashamed. Aziraphale’s hands clutch at the lapel of his jacket.

“I didn’t want to go too fast for you,” Crowley continues, voice breaking into a whisper. “I didn’t want to be too much.”

The wind buffets them and the world has disappeared around them. They simply hang onto each other, and it’s then that Aziraphale understands. Only then.

“Oh,” he says, quietly. He opens his eyes, pulls away, and looks at Crowley. _Surely not_ , he thinks to himself in pure amazement, then, “Just a tick- just- wait here, I’ll be back in a mo.”

Crowley’s mouth hangs open dumbly. “Wh- what- you’re- you’re not serious-?”

“I promise I’ll be back!” He replies giddily.

He closes his eyes, snaps his fingers, and he is in space. 

Aziraphale doesn’t need to breathe, not really. And he’s only planning to be out here for a moment, just long enough to see.

He hangs there in the vacuum of space, the freezing cold biting his skin even as he miracles a bubble around himself. The angel Aziraphale looks down at the Earth that he helped create. 

And he finally sees it. An aura so enormous it rivals Adam’s. Huge and all encompassing and soft around the edges, a blanket that stretches out across the globe and hugs it. It’s Crowley, it’s his aura- more than that, it’s his love. Aziraphale sees it now, and out here in space, he hovers and feels his hair and clothes rippling around him weightlessly, feels a smile grow and the tears floating from his eyes in little drops, joining the stars. 

_That’s quite long enough,_ he thinks, and a moment later, he miracles himself back on the hill in the Cotswolds, a few feet away from Crowley. He finds him spinning in anxious little circles, taking his glasses off and searching about the hill, before his gold eyes fall on him. 

“What the fuck was that-?”

Aziraphale marches up to him, pulls him by the collar of his jacket and kisses him. It’s clumsy, it’s urgent, and it’s just right. 

And when the clouds finally break, soaking them to the bone with rain, neither one notices. 

**Epilogue**

**Enter God, the narrator**

All’s well that ends well, see? 

Ultimately, most things are simpler than you think. Love. War. None of it’s really that ineffable- there’s always an answer right in front of you. 

It just takes a little nudge for you to see it.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hey to me on tumblr, I'm justkeeptrekkin !


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